


The Story Can Resume

by thorinlock



Series: Though the World Explodes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Becoming Jane inspired, Bisexual John, Coming Out, Gay Sherlock, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous Sherlock, John and Sherlock go on vacation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining Sherlock, References to Drugs, Reincarnation, Sherlock Loves John, TAB inspired, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Writer Sherlock, drug usage, irene is a perfect badass boss, seance, victorian spiritualism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorinlock/pseuds/thorinlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victorian London - Sherlock Holmes is an aspiring writer, hoping to author the greatest mystery novel of his time. Eccentric, brilliant, and hopelessly uninspired, Sherlock is a man who prizes rationale and intellect over emotion - that is until he meets John Watson. The connection they share is instant, and John effectively becomes his muse, helping him to see the value of sentiment, especially in writing. </p><p>Inspired by Becoming Jane and The Abominable Bride. Part one of my reincarnation series, "Though the World Explodes".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read this first! The point of this fic would be lost without this introduction. 
> 
> I am writing a series of four parts, collectively called "Though the World Explodes." The concept is based on the poem by Vincent Starrett, "221B", in which he talks about the everlasting, timeless nature of the characters Sherlock and John. Hence I developed the idea of writing a four part series, each part being of a certain time period with a corresponding reincarnation of Sherlock and John. This is all of course within the context of Johnlock. I then got the idea to base at least two of my reincarnations on films or television shows I had seen, as the final part of this series is already based on the BBC Sherlock TV show. 
> 
> The first part of the series, titled "The Story Can Resume", is set in the Victorian period, when the characters were first created by Arthur Conan Doyle. As you can see, my timeline of reincarnations begins with the creation of the characters and works chronologically up to the modern adaptation on BBC. This particular Victorian AU is inspired by the 2007 movie Becoming Jane as well as the recent BBC Sherlock Christmas special, The Abominable Bride. 
> 
> The second part of the series is another AU, based on the book and movie Atonement. 
> 
> The nature of the third part of the series is to be decided. 
> 
> The final part of the series is based on the modern BBC Sherlock. 
> 
> Each part of this series is uploaded as a full-length fic, not as a single chapter, though I know it is the norm in AO3 for each part of a series to usually only be a chapter. However, I could think of no other way to structure this. I will update chapter by chapter until part 1 is finished, before moving on to part 2, and so on so forth. These stories CAN work as stand-alones, but trust me, you won't want them to.
> 
> So with that, please enjoy! Find me on http://thorinlock.tumblr.com if you want to ask me questions about this series or just talk in general.

A mystery story is a complicated thing.

In itself, the structure is simple. There is an introduction, and the reader is acquainted with the characters of the novel, and very often it is the main characters who are introduced first.

And as it is a mystery novel, the main character is surely a mystery solver of some sort. Now, the occupations often associated with such inquisitive endeavours tend to take the form of journalist, adventurer, professor… great thinkers with an incurable sense of curiosity.

But most compelling of all the possible occupations is surely that of a detective.

A detective’s job is to solve mysteries – this is a most unambiguous fact. But the depths to which the occupation infiltrates the most base and unspoken horrors of this world is what set it as something that should be written only by the most skilled and meticulous of writers. That its existence was derived from the necessity to fight evil with intellect was inexplicably exciting, and a good mystery novel should reverently be a monument to this fact – that intellect unravels chaos, that the mind is at the heart of it all.

Following the introduction, in which the detective hero is presented to the audience, conflict must then be introduced in order for the story to truly begin.

And this part, which was only the second part of it all, was where Sherlock Holmes was uncompromisingly stalled now, and has been for the past month.

It had come to him one night as he sat in a morphine-induced daze in his flat: the character William Sherrinford, a genius of observation and deduction, the only consulting detective in Britain – no, the world.

A consulting detective, Sherlock decided, is someone who is so skilled in the art of deduction that the police seek him out for his services in solving the most impossible cases.

His pipe in hand, Sherlock had scrambled up to his desk by the window and lunged for his quill. He could hardly have remembered where the typewriter was, much less in that dazed state – perhaps it was broken into pieces, each part lodged in some peculiar hiding place in the flat, perhaps he had thrown it out his window last week, perhaps he had sent it down to Mrs Hudson wrapped in the front page of Wednesday’s Strand. He would have had no reason to do any of those things, other than the fact that he was frequently, utterly, and distressingly bored.

So when the serendipitous thought had struck him he pursued it with enthusiasm, thinking it would be an excellent way of alleviating his terrible ennui.

But it has been a month now since he wrote the introduction to his novel, still without a title, and he has found that he cannot progress.

Sherlock came to London in the summer of 1880, then a promising man of 24 from the high society of the country, just freshly graduated from Cambridge. His parents were occupants of some lower position of nobility – he never bothered to figure out what. He had refused all of the jobs offered to him by his brother, instead going to his parents and begging them to let him take a sabbatical.

“A sabbatical?” his mother had enquired of him. “Sherlock, you are not yet a professional; what could you be taking a sabbatical for?”

“To write,” he had answered her, chest swelling with the confidence he had worked to muster for this moment.

To his credit, he really did intend to write something, for which the publishing his father had said he would sponsor. But the thought of potentially having to take up up some kind of profession under Mycroft at the government to alleviate the familial shame of having an author for a son was what drove him to run off to London now, to lay off for however long he can the dawning of that reality in which life would truly come to be perfectly tedious and stupid.

And so he had urged his parents to let him come to London to seek inspiration and experience in the bustle of this great city, to make a man of himself and learn independence, become acquainted with the urban high societies (most unlike that of the small-minded country where he was from), and to forge great friendships with the nation’s infamous and most prolific writers.

Yet, almost a year since he had come down to London, all this of course, never came to pass.

He found himself lodgings on Baker Street, in a small but cosy flat tended to by the landlady, Mrs Hudson. The rent was as cheap as it could get in London, and though he had access to the sizable trust his parents had set up for him (and continue to replenish each month), he wanted to be economical. After all, the money was better spent on other luxuries.

He had come to London to escape, and any spectacular growth his parents had anticipated of him was put on hold with the development of a drug habit. How he relished in the ease of access to narcotics and substances here in the city, when back in Hampshire his method of release was confined loyally to tobacco, and not by choice.

It helps him write, he would say to himself on days he felt particularly bitter with himself for this indulgence. But it’s what artists do, isn’t it? In Paris, in New York, swept up in all their artful revolution - they take drugs. They take drugs to think, to create.

London was not quite so bohemian, and perhaps that was why Sherlock was not quite progressing with his work.

His character, William Sherrinford, was a genius who solved crimes. This much Sherlock knows. Sherrinford is an enigmatic, charismatic, charming young man who was outside and above the constrictions of Victorian society. He didn’t bother with etiquette or propriety, he did as he pleased – which simply means, he ignored all the small, little minds of the people around him, and struck by his wit and brilliance they let him. He pursued his cases with a single-minded efficiency that made him most indispensable to Scotland Yard, and then when he was done he would return to the solitude of his flat and smoke, musing on the intellectual lessons of the day.

This was what Sherlock had conjured the character to be, but as he wrote on he found it most lacking. He was unable to introduce the conflict without feeling like he had to go back and change the introduction, despite already having a most tantalising case in mind. He had already worked out all the twists and big reveals, right down to the smallest detail. And yet, he couldn’t write it.

He was taught nothing of how difficult it would be to succeed as a writer while at Cambridge. Truth be told, he was taught very little, though he did acquire the skill of accountancy to some small degree, and by his calculations, he would need to find himself a fellow lodger to bear half the cost of the rental in order to keep himself off the street. It was a tough quest, finding one suited to this task. So often he met people he instantly disliked, and so often people met him and instantly disliked him, that he thought he might never find anyone.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the papers on his desk. Soft light floated in from outside, gently illuminating the rich colours of his living room. The sounds of the bustling street below were not an annoyance, they were a soundtrack. William Sherrinford was a metropolitan man, after all, and these were the sounds he would have heard every day in his own home: the trot of a horse lugging a carriage, the cries of vendors, the squabble of small talk.

It was this proximity to activity and populace that made a detective’s life exciting. People meant relationships, and relationships meant conflict, and conflict meant a case.

Sherlock lit up his pipe and began puffing on it, debating on whether he should play his violin, take a stroll outside, or pay a visit to Bart’s. By his family’s influence he was allowed to frequent the morgues of the hospital to perform experiments on cadavers, for his writing. Most of the other doctors thought him odd, but how else was he supposed to become accurately acquainted with the smallest details of decomposition, or different styles of bruising and their causes, or at the very least, the smell and look of a corpse, if he didn’t experience all this himself?

These particulars were important to Sherlock; they were what made the story.

But there wasn’t much to be made, was there, when he had nothing to go on?

With a groan of frustration he set his pipe aside, marching to the door. He wouldn’t just be going out for a walk; he had already done that in the morning. He had even bumped into Dr Stamford and suffered through the small talk. No more of that now.

He turned to give the papers on his desk one last, expectant look, as if words were supposed to suddenly start writing themselves. When they most certainly did not, he donned his coat and wrenched the door open, slamming it on his way out.

 

* * *

London. The gutter of the Empire, teeming with rotten life and commodified debauchery, irresistible and hellishly so. John Watson supposed he was now one of many morgue-bound organisms floating in the ditch that was this complicated city. After all, there’s not many places a retired army surgeon could flock to for prospects after being invalided home, nowhere more ripe than the sprawling industrialisation of the greatest city in the world.

He had recently arrived from the country where he was visiting with his sister, anxious to find lodgings and work. It is safe to say that he did not expect much, but then not expecting anything is still an expectation, and amusingly enough, John found his expectations promptly met.

Yet, life was still capable of surprises, and not just the kind that is delivered to you in a rapid bullet fired from an Afghan gun shattering your shoulder. He never believed in fateful mornings, and yet it was on one of those that he left his hotel for a walk along the Strand, taking in the busy sights and endless parades of carriages and people, that he experienced a chance encounter with an old friend.

“Watson! Watson!” a voice called out behind him. It took him several moments to register that it was he who was being named, and when he turned he did so with no inkling of who it might be who knew his name and called out to him so familiarly - not in this city.

His eyes landed on the sole figure who was scrutinising him: a short, plump man with a jovial, pink face and kind eyes. The man grinned at John’s acknowledgment and identified himself.

“Stamford,” he said, reminding John and approaching slowly. "Remember? We were at Bart’s together.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Stamford,” John said, extending his hand for a shake.

“Dear Lord, man, where have you been?” Stamford eyed John closely. “You look quite unwell.”

Stamford was exaggerating, but that does not mean John could not be offended. There was truth there, in regards to John’s decreased appetite and sleepless nights, as well as his injury which was also certainly a hindrance in allowing him the chore of pursuing exercise.

Stamford suggested tea, and mildly pleased with the opportunity to connect with another human being since he arrived in the city, John obliged.

At a small tea house at a corner of the street, John answered Stamford’s pressing curiosities.

“I got shot,” he said plainly, and Stamford’s eyes trailed to the cane that John had placed against the table. He didn’t need to be told all the details of the Second Afghan War, how John woke nightly with garish dreams racking his brain, how when he was shot it was like getting hit on a small part of your body with the full impact of time and space.

“So what next?” Stamford asked sympathetically.

“I need a place to live. And a job. It’s difficult to afford London on an army pension.”

“And you could not bear to be anywhere else! There’s the John Watson I know,” Stamford chided.

“I’m not the John Watson you –” John cut himself off, inhaling in deeply and turning away just as he felt the tremor in his left hand begin to take hold. He squeezed his fist to keep it from attracting attention.

Stamford refused to let the awkward interruption derail their conversation.

“Perhaps a fellow lodger is in order, find someone to split the rent of an apartment with you.”

John scoffed.

“I struggle to think of a person who might want to share a flat with me.”

Stamford stared thoughtfully at John for a while, before he suddenly began to chuckle.

“What is it?” John asked.

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?” John asked, and the glint in Stamford’s eye seemed like an answer enough.

 

* * *

Sherlock loved being in the morgue at St. Bart’s. The other attendants and doctors were deathly intimidated of him. He liked pinching their nerves, hovering up behind them as they worked on a corpse just to slip in an observation suddenly, making everyone jump. They’d shiver just ever so slightly whenever they thought he was about to approach them again. It amused him endlessly.

Sherlock often wondered if his appreciation for the art of forensics was morbid to the point of abnormality, whether if he confessed his daily schedule to anyone they’d look back at him with horror and recommend, no, insist on a visitation with the pastor. Not that that would do Sherlock any good.

And now Sherlock had a new reason to appreciate the morgue at Bart’s, as he just found out. Because he is here so frequently, the likes of Dr Stamford could seek him out here with ease, and it is this blessing of convenience that led him to meet the admirable and respectable Dr John Watson.

He had been standing over a corpse lying flat on a cold slab, whipping its body with a cane. He moved vigorously - he had no pity for the dead.

So caught up was he in the strain of his exertion that he barely heard Stamford the first time he called out to him. The second time, he began to register that not one, but two people were standing behind him, awaiting his acknowledgment. Stamford had brought a friend, then.

He turned around with a great huff, his eyes falling first on the familiar visage of Stamford, and then skittering over to the man stood next to him.

_Oh._

Sherlock liked to think that he only needed a fraction of a second to observe a person, but in that moment it seemed like time went on forever as he stared.

There was something about this man.

He was a tightly wound walking apparition of contrast. His frame was small but obviously powerful, his face was tired but exceedingly kind, his eyes were soft but piercing… Sherlock stopped himself. He would not have such garbage for observations – these things tell you nothing crucial about a person. He let himself start again. The man before him was a tortured man. A wounded one, in need of recovery – literally and figuratively. There was suffering in his eyes, but yet behind those shadows of doubt and fear and hopelessness there was a kind of soft strength and understanding and a peculiar intelligence – _enough with the damn eyes, Sherlock Holmes,_ he thought with vitriol as he ordered himself to focus.

 _Ah,_ he thought, finally settling on something concrete.

“You’ve been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” he said.

The man raised his eyebrows at him, startled.

Sherlock in truth, was also quite startled. Never before had he met anyone whose appearance alone had bombarded him with so much data, though Sherlock wasn’t sure all that trifle he had thought of earlier would qualify as proper data.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock,” Stamford said, gesturing between the men.

_Doctor? Army doctor._

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” the man asked, still a little slack-jawed.

“I have my eye on an apartment on Baker Street,” Sherlock breathed, ignoring the question. “Between us, we could afford them.”

“Wha – I didn’t say anything –”

“No, I did, only this morning to Stamford. I told him I was in need of a fellow lodger and now here he is accompanied by you, most assuredly recently departed from Afghanistan, as your tan and recent injury would suggest. Your timing is rather good, I have promised the landlady that I would find her another tenant by the end of the week.”

“How do you know about Afghanistan?” the man pressed on.

Sherlock could have went on for hours picking the man apart and verbalising every observation to the whole morgue. He could have talked about the distant look in his eyes, the empty way he smiled, how tensely he stood, though frankly he now found himself most interested in the colour of the man's eyes (which he could not totally distinguish in this lighting and distance – that would soon have to be corrected, of course), he could have gone on and on and on and that’s why Sherlock refrained from speaking now, because what would Stamford and Dr Watson think of him if he just went off like that, especially when Stamford knew how unusual it would be for Sherlock to notice things like _the look in someone’s eyes_ and _the way they smile._

Sherlock himself almost shuddered at the thought, how this man could be so analytically interesting that he’d captivate Sherlock to this point, and was seized by a sudden terror in realising how moronic he must look not answering the man’s question.

A violent rush of adrenaline snapped at his consciousness and he acted out of impulse.

He tossed the cane he had been holding in the direction of Dr Watson, and somehow the doctor managed to catch it firmly in his hand.

“Excellent reflexes, you’ll do!” Sherlock said, oddly cheery as he soothed his hair out.

Dr Watson frowned at him.

“I’m sorry?”

In his embarrassment Sherlock quickly walked forward and retrieved the cane from Dr Watson.

“You’re clearly acclimatised to unexpected things happening very suddenly – we’ll get along splendidly then. I play the violin and smoke a pipe, I hope that’s not a problem. Potential fellow lodgers should know each other’s worst habits, don’t you think?”

Sherlock wished the man would just stick out his hand, say his full name.

He could add that to his now-forming list of things he didn’t quite know about Dr Watson yet, including the colour of his eyes and the how he found balance between so many of his conflicting aspects.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes,” he ventured first. “And the address is 221B Baker Street. Come by tomorrow at seven, and we’ll finalise the details.”

When the man didn’t reply, Sherlock simply smiled at him and Stamford, turning to leave.

 _Watson,_ he thought peculiarly. And he continued to feel peculiar for the rest of the day, up until tomorrow, at seven, when he heard the knocker downstairs sounding off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short transitional chapter. Bigger things to come!

His name was John Watson – this did not take long to figure out.

His eyes were blue. This took a little longer. _A dark blue, a cloudy blue, softer on the edges and intensifying towards the centre_  – Sherlock stopped himself. There would be plenty of time to ponder on them in the future. Sherlock certainly hoped so. It has been a pleasant two months living with the constant company and easy friendship of Dr. John Watson. It is amazing what you can learn about another person in just two months of sharing rooms with them. Sherlock was not so sure that the doctor had learned as much as he did, but Sherlock certainly gained a wealth of understanding about his new friend. 

For instance, Dr. John Watson had only one endeavour in life he truly enjoyed without any worry or fuss - drinking tea. However, more important was his capabilities at making tea. Sherlock would frequently leave Mrs Hudson's batch to go cold just so when the doctor returned, he would tut disapprovingly at Sherlock for only a fraction of a second before absconding to brew a delightful pot of tea. Sherlock had become attached to it, so much so that he had no qualms requesting, or rather, demanding his friend to make it for him. His friend apparently, had no qualms obliging. Most of the time. 

They had grown quite comfortable with one another, which Sherlock was happy to note. For one, he never even thought he would be able to find a lodger to share the rent with him, let alone a lodger who has now become his closest friend. John Watson tolerated all of Sherlock's oddities, and stranger even, seemed to find them endearing.

Arguments were certainly not absent from their banter, but Sherlock found that he quite liked arguing with the doctor. The man had a sternness about him that demanded respect, helping to curtail Sherlock's rasher sensibilities, but the doctor also seemed to genuinely care for his wellbeing. Which is why Sherlock hid his drug habit, which surprisingly, was not so difficult to do. Having another soul living in close quarters to you providing both company and potential disapproval was an effective deterrent. 

The doctor fascinated Sherlock as much as he provided a much-needed voice of reason and composure whenever Sherlock seemed to get radical ideas. Sherlock was idle most of his days, and during others he sat at his desk frantically attempting to churn out material for his story. All his progress however, tended to up end as crumpled sheets on the floor. He would then suggest for the pair of them to take trips around London, or he’d ask the doctor to follow him to the morgue, and whenever he suggested these spontaneous, and frankly, unproductive activities, his friend would always stare him down with a patient look until he returned to his desk with a huff.

Though, this did not mean their lives lacked adventure. There was something restless about the doctor. Sherlock may be the one with the wild ideas, but John Watson only protests when Sherlock's activities border on the compulsive. The more extravagant the adventure, the more unable to resist the doctor seemed. Sherlock was so attuned to his friend's need for certain types of activity that he knew exactly how to get the doctor out of the house and trailing after him to, as they did last Tuesday, spectate the drama between a nobleman and his wife's lover at the opera, which Sherlock somehow was able to predict would happen at that exact place and time, to Watson's unending astonishment. The two men had watched from the balcony as Sherlock spat rapid-fire commentary of the scene as it unfolded before them, ending with a flourish as it was revealed that the noble lady's lover was in fact not the maître d', but his sister. 

These days, such unplanned adventures became less and less frequent as the doctor found himself increasingly desperate for a job and Sherlock found himself increasingly manic from writer's block. 

During the last week, Sherlock had recently taken to reading penny dreadfuls, sometimes even aloud, especially if Watson was around. He found it to be an effective distraction from the responsibilities at hand. 

“Holmes, I must say, they’re called dreadful for a reason,” Watson had said to him the first time.

“Yes, I’m well aware of that.”

“Do they delight you?”

“They amuse me," Sherlock had concluded, and from that day Watson simply accepted that bedtime stories devolved with age. 

Sherlock had become fascinated with the macabre as depicted in these short stories, and he wished for nothing more than to pick the brains of those authors – what had they seen in their lifetime that they were able to write so vividly these imagined horrors?

These novellas were increasingly difficult to find – it seemed people had become less and less interested in demon barbers and vampires; they cared not for the paranormal and grotesque, instead they sought some kind of enlightened form of literature. This was a mask at best – no matter how much people tried to deviate from it, they couldn’t deny their inherent lust for the eroticism of violence and death.

Watson cleared his throat behind him and Sherlock quickly turned. He had been staring out the window at the street below, watching the pedestrians disinterestedly. It seemed he hadn’t even noticed when the doctor had returned.

“Ah, Watson. How was your walk?”

“Typical,” he replied curtly. “It might interest you to know that I have found some work.”

“Splendid.”

“I am to teach. At Bart’s.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at man before him. He clearly looked displeased with the very news he was breaking.

“Is that so?” Sherlock began to pace. “I’m sure you will find it most rewarding.”

“Perhaps.”

“Some tea, Watson?”

“No, thank you.”

“What ever is bothering you today?” Sherlock finally asked, taken aback by Watson’s refusal of tea, a staple that this most British man never failed to enjoy.

Watson sighed, his face encumbered with some unspoken burden.

“I don’t know what I am to do here, Holmes.”

“You are to teach, help me pay the rent,” Sherlock said plainly.

“No – I know that. I mean – I –”

Watson did not have to stutter any further - Sherlock saw it then. Watson was frustrated, jaded. He was in the busiest, liveliest city in the world and yet he had never felt so bored in his life. He was itching for something to do, something other than teach or sit idly about the flat – he had not even unpacked his things yet. He was a man who found it hard to be idle.

“Shall we take a walk, doctor?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

“A walk? I have just come back from one.”

“You were walking, yes. You moved your legs and they propelled you forward. No, Watson. I’m talking about the kind of walk that actually involves moving _through_ the city, not _against_ it.”

Watson stared back at him blankly and Sherlock approached slowly.

“I can see that you quite dislike London. You miss the country, which is an odd juxtaposition with the fact that you’re simply aching for some kind of action, violence perhaps, exertion of the pent-up frustration you’ve felt ever since you came back from the war. This is interesting to me because what could there possibly be to do in the country? Dull landscapes rolling onto the next endlessly – suffocating. But you like it, the country, I’m guessing because it’s the only thing that calms you in your constant state of manic restlessness. Quite the man of action, aren’t you, Dr Watson? I understand that. I am frequently in need of stimulation myself, you’ve seen me on one of my episodes in the short time we’ve lived together, haven’t you? And as such I propose a walk, because you are in need of convincing as to the virtues of the city, and how in fact London is actually rather complementary to your nature,” Sherlock finished in a flurry.

The doctor looked affronted.

“You can’t simply insinuate those things about me. Or am I really so transparent?”

“I look at you, Watson, and I can see from the state of your shoes that you’ve been walking in the market – bad choice, it features the worst elements of any city – noise, filth, large bodies of people. I can see from the way you hold yourself that not only were you in the military, which was a fact I knew about you at first sight, but that you were an officer. A captain, in fact. By watching you respond fleetingly to every loud noise from the street or in the flat I inferred that you weren’t actually afraid of them or still reeling from some kind of trauma, you were expectant, anticipating. You crave some kind of conflict. By looking at the lines on your face and the bags under your eyes I know that you don’t sleep well. Nightmares. And your limp – you don’t actually need that cane. When you walk, one can see that it _does_ pose a real hindrance to your movement, that you are in actual discomfort, but when you stand you don’t appear to lean on the cane for your support. You stand upright like the officer you are and can stand for long periods of time without asking for a chair, such as right now. You’re capable of being distracted from it – that tells me it’s at least partly a psychological hindrance as much as it is physical. So what does a bored and frustrated ex-army man with trouble sleeping who craves the excitement afforded by conflict and who clearly lacks knowledge on how best to experience the new vibrant city he now lives in needs? I’m not insinuating, doctor. I’m pointing out.”

Watson stared back in bewilderment, and it was an expression Sherlock knew down to the finest detail. So often had he seen the doctor look at him like this in the past months that Sherlock almost had his expression memorised. Watson raised a stiff finger, looking grave.

“You have got to explain how you do that.” He sniffed, and Sherlock's chest immediately fell, worried that he had angered the other man. He tried working out how best to help the doctor forget it – he couldn’t have Watson disliking him so early after they had just moved in. But then Watson’s expression changed as he held Sherlock’s gaze. “It’s – it’s quite extraordinary.”

“Extraordinary?” Sherlock repeated blankly.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Since the first day you deduced that I had returned from Afghanistan. It was fantastic. It _is_ fantastic.”

Sherlock swallowed, looking away.

“Ah. It’s a simple matter of observation.”

“It’s not so simple to me.”

“I study these things. I study the art of deduction. I make it my purpose to learn as much as I can about anything just by observing.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

“Because you want to write a great detective story.”

Sherlock paused.

“Now it’s your turn to insinuate," he murmured.

Watson inched closer to Sherlock, staring him down.

“I may not be as observant as you are, Holmes. But I know people. I know them well enough, at least. It’s not a gift, not like your talents are. But I’m almost always right.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and stepped away, eyeing with interest the confidence exuding from the doctor now.

“Come walk with me, I’ll show you how I do it,” he said.

Watson frowned at him.

“I’ll even teach you.”

Watson bristled.

“Fine, but nowhere near here. Take me somewhere I've not seen before.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Have you been to Whitechapel?

“No.”

“Well then,” Sherlock’s smiled turned into a grin. “The game is on.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Holmes go for a walk, but oh how eventful some walks turn out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter is not written combining both POVs, to give a more holistic and factual presentation of the conflict. 
> 
> Here are some pictures of Whitechapel for reference:  
> https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/66/Whitechapel_High_Street_1905.JPG  
> http://images.amcnetworks.com/bbcamerica.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/STOP7-dorset-street.jpg

“You said,” Watson panted, his brow furrowed as he strained to block out the indiscernible flood of unpleasant smells assaulting his nose now. “You said no noise, filth, or large bodies of people.”

“Did I?” Holmes answered, feigning forgetfulness.

“You implied it,” Watson insisted, just as one of many pedestrians bumped into him.

“Watch it,” the man snarled.

“Perhaps your people-reading skills are not as perfected as you thought they were, doctor,” Holmes said.

“My people-reading skills are fine. You just happen to be a rascal.”

Holmes laughed as he continued to lead his companion through the busy street at Whitechapel, derelict tenements lining each side as scores of Londoners flurried about in cabs or on foot. Some stood idly by outside the buildings, watching the decidedly posh Sherlock Holmes with suspicion. Some stood behind their stalls, calling out to the pedestrians as they flaunted their wares. 

Watson tried not to think about what kind of activities went on here at night, in the covers of the back alleys and perhaps even out here in the open of the street. It was unbearably crowded living, he thought, as he gazed up at the boarded windows and broken balconies of the ill-maintained buildings.

It was still in the day, and yet there was something undeniably dark about the place, how it seemed that this was a place of hopelessness, a place of death. He knew of tenement living and the plight of factory workers, but he had never seen it in close-up before. 

Holmes had stopped right at an intersection, looking left into a small alley framed on each side by gargantuan blocks of flats with rows upon rows of clotheslines hanging between them.

“If you just threw someone off the top nobody would even notice until they went and collected and their laundry. A perfect place for murder,” he whispered.

Watson looked up at him.

“You didn’t bring me here to scout for locations for your novel, did you?” he asked in a low voice.

“Of course not, doctor. I know all of London like the back of my hand, and that’s not an exaggeration. We’re here because of you.”

Holmes spun on his feet, gesturing to the sprawl of life around them.

"What do you think?"

"What am I supposed to think?"

“You think there’s nothing to see in London. You think it's all boredom and tedious routine. You miss Afghanistan. But allow me to postulate doctor, that this is in fact, war.”

Watson followed Holmes’ eye, trailing up and down the dirty street. He wondered then: what were the depths to which depravity could go in a place where smoke curled ominously over the breathable air as a daily warning of death, a place where rooted in its every brick and stone were the unchangeable routines of a life (or semblance of it) dictated by Poor Law, a place where the people woke everyday to the increasing mechanisation of their existence, the whole street sustaining itself on gruel, surviving on work that broke the back and living with an involuntary discipline that surpassed robotic efficiency. The street knew death as well as the morgue did, and the home knew provision the way a soldier on the front knew comfort. This was war, this was prison, and the men and women who made this casket their home were combatants fighting daily to be rid of its confines.

If anything, the thought only cemented how Watson felt about London: it was only the forgotten of the Empire who thought they could thrive here.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Holmes muttered at his side.

“Why did you bring me here?” Watson retorted, breathing heavily. The claustrophobia of the place was evident. He was a doctor, but he looked at the dirt-stained faces of the children who ran past him scarcely covered by their raggedy coats and felt helpless to save any one of them.

“You’re the kind of man who became a doctor because you were used to the idea of taking care of people. Rid yourself of that idea. Look at them. They care for themselves.”

Yes, the children who ran by were laughing. The people minding the stalls were with family. The idlers lounging about found appreciation in the simplest activities. Yet Watson still shook his head.

“This is not right. Nobody should have to live like this.”

“And yet look at them,” Holmes repeated insistently. “They build our civilisation. The feed the city with their labour, they sustain the empire’s greatness with their diligence. They brawl, they are vulgar, they don’t care for manners, but look how they enjoy what they have, how they laugh, how even the smallest excitements don’t get past their appreciation. They are called wicked, and perhaps they are, with their women lounging in the streets calling to the boys, exchanging some semblance of companionship for some semblance of power. Their morals are crooked, and perhaps that is true. Over and over they murder one another and roam free, they thieve and vandalise and reject the principles you and I believe ourselves to be so rooted in. It is said their living is brutal, and I know this to be true. Their faces are marked not by beauty or distinction but by hunger so profound it's almost as if food was a missing part of their souls, and here they are, soulless. They seem like things.

“And yet every now and then, even in the worst of places, such as this, I wonder if you could go anywhere else and see so much suffering and trouble combatted so effectively by a pride in survival. That they are coarse and broken is nothing more than a testament that they are unbeaten, cunning, and perseverant. When they sing they do it with their bellies. They roar, they shout. Have you ever seen spirit like that, Watson, except on a battlefield following a victory? They toil and they strife and it is what makes them so bold, it is that which gives our city its character, its ammunition against opposing forces. They’re fierce, they crave action, they’re savage against the trials piled on them. They build, they rebuild. When they laugh you can see the yellows of their teeth, but never mind the colour - it’s a laugh of a fighter who would not give up, whose body pulses with life in the daily knowledge that the fight continues tomorrow and he is ready for it. Their breaths are the rhythm of the nation, and under their ribs swells the lifeline of our great empire – they are the heart of our power. They are youth and old age and innocence and experience and they swagger on this dangerous uncertainty of their lives, proud in their survival. Like soldiers.

“So you’ll forgive me, Watson, if I say London is for you. Because I see in it the very same spirit of character I see in you.”

Holmes turns to look at the doctor, whose lips are parted in wonderment as he gazes up at the taller man.

“When I first met you – the night we looked at 221B together – you told me you were a writer,” Watson began softly.

“I did.”

“You’re not a writer, Holmes.” The taller man’s eyes shot up to meet Watson's, worry etched in them. Watson considered slowly before speaking again, softening his features so Holmes knew not to fret.

“You’re a poet,” he concluded, slightly amused.

Holmes drew in a deep breath, turning away for a fraction before looking at his companion again.

“That’s – thank you.”

It was a phenomenon that Watson had noticed since he met Holmes, who would become inexplicably pleased when praised, almost always flushing at Watson's compliments. Watson wondered if this is something he should endeavour to do more often, if only to see the usually emotionally rigid writer fumble and fluster.

“I hope I have convinced you that London is worth your appreciation," Holmes continued. 

“Some things are worth my appreciation,” Watson replied, still smiling at Holmes, a soft affection playing in his eyes.

Holmes was truly a remarkable man, so calculating and precise with his observations (Watson figures he must be a genius, he must be), but in all fairness, he was an odd man. And yet, he had the utmost respect and affection for the writer, perhaps because he was the only person Holmes seemed to have respect and affection for. 

Watson heard it before it happened – the approaching of heavy footsteps, purposefully quick and revealingly agitated, coupled with a flurry of gasps and exclamations following in its wake. Yet somehow though his subconscious anticipated it, with his psyche being on edge ever since he returned from the Near East, his body didn’t quite react until everything unfolded in brutal succession.

It hit him harshly on his back – a large figure slamming into him and then pushing him out of the way as he fell with his cane slipping under his legs. He heard Holmes call out furiously, but by then Watson was already falling to the floor, his body twisted away from Holmes and his attacker, to see two policemen running up to the scene, waving their batons frantically .

“Put the man down, Locke!” cried one of the officers as he straightened out his arms, his palms facing outward in a gesture of placation.

Watson groaned, shifting his position on the ground so he could see what the officers were looking at.

An alarming scene came into focus before him. The man who had pushed him to the ground was in fact now standing before him, but with Sherlock Holmes held against his front under the tight grip of an arm wrapped around the writer's neck.

Holmes looked positively horrified to be used as the criminal's human shield.

The truth however, was that Holmes was not entirely adverse to the happenings that were occurring. Indeed, he would have preferred if this had happened to someone else and he was simply an observer, but this was always what he wanted, wasn't it? To truly understand the nature of crime, to play out a scene from one of those penny dreadfuls he liked so much. Perhaps being close up in the action would more effectively draw out the inspiration that had been previously so clogged, enabling him to continue with the rest of the story.

The man restraining him was after all, a textbook villain, and this was an oft-storied kind of conflict that Holmes was aching to watch unfold.

“Locke,” began one of the officers, inching ever so slowly. The villain, Locke, jerked back in reactionary caution.

“Come any closer and I’ll slice his neck up,” he snarled.

Watson clambered to his feet, adrenaline spiking at the sight of a knife glinting against Holmes’ neck.

“This is unnecessary,” the officer cried. “What do you hope to achieve? Another count of murder?”

The man roared. "You've got no proof!"

 _A murderer._ Holmes’ excitement surged. How interesting the day had turned out.

“I should let you know, sir, that I don’t appreciate being held at knifepoint,” he chided.

The man sneered and tightened his grip on Holmes.

“Holmes, don’t struggle,” Watson breathed, catching Holmes’ eye. 

In that moment they seemed to exchange a silent understanding – something was about to happen, and they were somehow privy to it. It was rather incredible how much could be said between them in just a look, after only so short an acquaintance.

The two officers could only stand with mouths agape with confusion and uncertainty, completely lost as to what they should be doing. 

And so Watson readied himself for the moment, and after giving Holmes a subtle, curt nod, Holmes promptly reacted. He reached up and seized both of Locke’s arms in a vicelike grip, and though he was significantly thinner than Locke, somehow he managed to get the better of the larger man. With a short burst of precise power Watson knew to be available only to the most skilled of martial artists, Holmes kicked Locke in his shin and the man jerked forwards in shock and pain. Holmes spun himself free from under Locke's arms and darted out of the way, but Locke recovered quickly and was just about to brandish his blade when Watson lurched forwards, kicking up dirt behind him as he sprinted to tackle the large man.

Everything seemed to slow down in that moment – Holmes brushing past in a mass of black, his coat flying as the officers began to advance, far too slowly. Locke’s eyes rising to take in the sight of the shorter man lunging at him, his body twisting to anticipate the impact. The impact itself coming, a huge chest-collapsing burst of energy as Watson collided into the much larger man, wrestling him to the ground as Watson worked to pin him down completely.

A sharp pain suddenly pierced his right bicep and the doctor looked down to see that Locke had managed to plunge the tip of his blade into his arm. Incensed, he landed a devastating blow across Locke’s jaw, effectively knocking a tooth out. Spitting blood, Locke grabbed Watson by the lapels and headbutted him, sending him into a daze as Locke crawled onto his feet and wrenched his blade from Watson’s bicep.

He brandished the blade at the officers wildly, and even as they held up their batons in retaliation they seemed to shy away, taking steps that were decidedly in retreat and not in advance. Determining that he wasn’t at all intimidated by them, Locke instead turned to Holmes and bellowed with fury,

“You! That hurt!”

Holmes cocked his eyebrow in amusement.

“That was the point.”

With a snarl of rage he thrust his blade in Holmes’ direction and lunged forward.

A loud bang echoed down the street, followed by confused screams as the crowd dispersed in a surge of chaos and shock. Locke’s eyes widened, his blade mere inches from Holmes’ chest, and just as his mouth curled into a surprised ‘O’, he fell to the ground in a heap.

Holmes staggered backwards, bewildered. His eyes scanned Locke's crumpled body and looked up to see the officers standing still and in shock. Finally he turned and caught sight of Watson, still on the ground, one arm raised with a revolver at the end, sizzling and smoking.

The doctor’s face was completely focussed, his breathing steady, and his shot apparently perfect.

He slowly got up on his feet and put his revolver back in his coat, approaching Locke’s body.

“I’m a doctor,” he announced confidently for the benefit of the officers, who quickly put their batons away and approached the scene.

He crouched and peered closely at the body. “Dead. Got him clean in the neck,” he muttered, and only Sherlock noticed the small note of pride in Watson's voice.

The officers turned to stare at one another, dread in their eyes.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Holmes said, quickly stepping in. “This is Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. And I’m Sherlock Holmes, at your service.” He flashed a confident smile at the policemen, obviously low-ranking officers more used to making rounds and patrols at busy streets idly making comments at drunkards and tramps than doing any actual police work. 

“I suppose this man is wanted for crimes and that he has been long pursued by Scotland Yard?” he inquired, just as Watson rose to stand beside him.

The officers didn’t respond, merely exchanging startled glances with one another.

“Well, he’s caught now!” Holmes declared cheerily. “This gentleman and I will be on our way, now. Carry on!”

He grabbed Watson's arm and pulled him with him, only to have him hiss and growl,

“Holmes, that hurts!”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry,” he replied absent-mindedly, dropping his arm. “We need to have that looked at.”

“No hospitals. I can take care of myself. He barely got it in. Just a small puncture,” Watson said as he held his injured arm gingerly, applying a little pressure underneath to dull the pain.

They continued to walk away from the scene. Watson turned to see that the two officers were standing over Locke’s body, examining him with confused faces. He turned to comment on the strange happenings to Holmes, but found that the other man looked quite lost in thought.

“Holmes?”

“You shot him,” the writer said. “You shot him for me.”

“Well, yes,” Watson replied plainly, as if nothing else was expected for him. “You were in danger.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I did, I saw it in his face. I can tell when a man is going in for the kill. And the officers weren’t equipped to deal with any of that.”

“They’ll want to take our statements.”

“Well, we’re walking away.”

“I suppose we are.” A small smile lifted Holmes’ lips as he continued to look down at his feet. “You needn’t have done that for me,” he murmured.

“I wanted to.”

“You killed a man.” Holmes stopped in his tracks, his companion following suit.

“Yes, I did. But he was not a very good man.”

“He wasn’t,” Holmes agreed.

"Look, Holmes. I would gladly do it again. After all, if you're dead, who's going to pay the other half of the rent?" Watson joked, though Holmes did not meet his gaze.

"I imagine it cannot be easy to take that action."

"I'm more used to it than others are," Watson muttered softly. "but that is not the point. You are my friend. And he would have killed you."

Sherlock turned to smile at the doctor, and Watson couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Sir!” a voice called from behind, and they turned to see one of the officers running up to them.

“Oh, here we go,” Watson muttered, turning his back on the man.

“Sir,” the officer panted, trailing to a stop. Watson obliged the officer, only to finally notice that the man was holding out a cane, offering it to him. “You dropped this, sir.”

Watson simply stared at it in amazement, looking down to realise that he had been walking without his cane and without a limp, that he had somehow completely forgotten his injury after Locke had pushed him to the ground. An odd feeling rushed through him so intensely he felt it in his toes.

“Er- thank you,” he said, taking the cane.

“You’re welcome, sir.” And with that, the officer turned and went back to his partner.

After a pause, Watson finally spoke. “They’re not going to take our statements then.” He turned to look at Holmes, who remained silent. Watson too was rendered speechless watching the soft expression that now played in Holmes’ smile. The man seemed to be swelling with affection. Or was it pride? Or both?

“I suppose they aren’t,” Holmes said softly. “So your limp – it _was_ a psychological problem more than it was a physical one, then.”

Watson nodded slowly, contemplating.

“I was shot in my shoulder, not my leg. But it doesn’t surprise me that you knew. You’re always right, aren’t you? You must be a genius.”

Holmes was positively flushed now, and he looked away in what the doctor guessed was embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I'll stop if it makes you –” he fumbled, but Holmes cut him off.

“No, it isn’t. Really, doctor, we should get home so you can fix that wound,” he said.

“It’s rather shallow. I’m barely bleeding,” Watson muttered, though he had to admit Holmes' concern was a source of comfort.

“Still,” Holmes pressed on.

“I noticed something,” Watson suddenly said.

“Oh?” Holmes looked intrigued, eyeing his companion curiously.

“Do you perchance practice martial arts, or learn any form of fighting?”

“Impressive, doctor. You’re learning. Observation does truly go a long way. Though you have it slightly off. I don’t practice anything as artful as what you think. I box.”

“Box?”

“Yes. Competitively. People take bets. Sometimes I take bets on myself. It’s an enjoyable pastime.”

“Is that what you do for entertainment?”

“I can teach you. How to box. Then perhaps you could do it as entertainment yourself.”

Watson gave the taller man a look, smiling. Sherlock Holmes had promised him a walk that would open his eyes to the true character of the city. In a few short minutes he had experienced everything from the poetry found in decay to the excitement of crime and then now whatever this soft, calm, pleasant feeling of belonging was. Perhaps he really was beginning to take to the city; perhaps he really was meant to be here.

“That would be nice, very nice indeed,” he said, catching Holmes’ eye. They strolled past an intersection that led off to a dirty alley piled with rubbish, and spotting his chance, the doctor tossed his cane away and it landed resolutely on a pile, to be forever abandoned, as he turned to smile at his friend, together navigating their way in the busy streets and surging crowd of London back to 221B.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Watson discuss Jane Austen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sherlock's POV! Real pleasure to write, with much more lined up! 
> 
> Sherlock is a bit of a rude shit in regards to his opinion on the book, as we're all used to him being, but that's just the way he is. As you might guess, the book is an important motif.

Sherlock wrote with a newfound frenzy he had been long chasing, a surge of energy coursing through him with such ferocity that he was sure his wrist might cramp soon, hand gripping the quill tightly as it glided over the paper in an erratic scrawl as words flowed out like foam from a bubbling fountain.

The conflict of his story unfolds brilliantly. The pace is quick-fire, the plot precise. Sherlock was never more motivated than he had been then, drawing up the daring and sometimes ridiculous adventuring of his detective.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been writing – he hadn’t even noticed when the flat had darkened as the sun set outside, wasn't even fully aware when Watson came in and lighted the lamps in silence, watching Sherlock in his concentration.

He must have returned from Mrs Hudson downstairs then, which meant his wound was properly cleaned and bandaged now. The fact that it took relatively little time to deal with soothed Sherlock. It must have been, just like Watson said, only a shallow wound. 

“Dinner?” Watson asked, just as Sherlock was finishing up what remained of the story.

“What?” he replied absentmindedly, eyes trailing over the last few sentences, his stomach knotting up anxiously as he read and reread his work.

“You haven’t eaten all day, Holmes. As your doctor –”

“My doctor?” Sherlock turned to face Watson, his eyebrow quirking up.

“I mean – as _a_ doctor, I must insist that you –”

“Watson, would you care to read what I have written?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

Watson paused, staring Sherlock down from where he stood in the doorway, his arm still half gesturing downstairs in continued beckoning for Sherlock to have dinner.

“You want me to read your manuscript?”

“Yes. If you would be so kind.”

“Holmes, I – I’m not an artist; I’m not like you.”

“Surely one doesn’t need to be an artist in order to know when they’re reading a good story. I don’t write for artists, Watson. The common reader is not an artist.”

He held out the stack of papers to the doctor, waiting politely.

Watson sighed, but ultimately took the manuscript from Sherlock. For a moment their hands lingered, Sherlock still gripping tightly onto one end as John attempted to tug it away lightly. Their eyes met, an unspoken contract signed between them both. Sherlock was giving him a part of him, something secret and sacred that he didn't trust with just anyone. The manuscript is to be treated with care, not just in how Watson was to keep it, but also with how he was to view it. 

Watson then nodded, so subtly it might have even been a trick of imagination, but it was that small gesture of assurance that allowed Sherlock to release his grip with surety as he watched the other man pocket the papers in his coat.

“Well then,” Watson broke the silence.

“Well then,” Sherlock repeated softly, and then rose as he made his way towards the window, retrieving his Stradivarius from its stand. "How is your arm?"

"Fine, as I expected it to be."

"I'm glad."

“Dinner, Holmes? You will need to eat, eventually,” Watson pressed.

“Eventually, I will.” He turned back to fix Watson with an expectant look. “Well, go one then. Mrs Hudson is awaiting you. And then I expect you will want some time alone to go through the story.”

With that, he began playing a tune on his violin, a song coaxed to life by some melancholic surge of disquiet within him. The melody rang sweetly, accentuated by the soft thumps of Watson’s footsteps going down the stairs.

* * *

 

Sherlock sat by the fire, smoking his pipe as he watched the flames trickle upwards in their curious, dancing way. So mesmerised was he by something as mundane as the evocative shape of fire that he didn’t hear Watson approach.

“Holmes,” the doctor said, clearing his throat.

Sherlock glanced up at Watson.

“I finished with the reading,” Watson said. Sherlock was impressed, flattered even – the doctor had probably read it over dinner and then sat down for a few hours more to finish it after.  

“Does it have a title?” Watson continued.

Sherlock shook his head. “I hadn’t thought of one yet.”

“Good,” announced Watson.

Sherlock felt a wad of concern drop in his stomach. 

"Just that – just that it would be good to leave the title to the end, what with all the revisions,” Watson added.

“Revisions?” Sherlock’s voice boomed.  _So he didn’t like it._ He extinguished his pipe and tucked it away, rising to go to his decanter to pour himself a drink. He turned to look at Watson, whose expression dawned with realisation.

“Ah. This was the final draft?” the doctor asked.

Sherlock inhaled deeply before waving him off.

“No. It wasn’t anything, just an exercise in boredom. I apologise for wasting your time. You can leave the story – the papers on my desk.” Sherlock paced to the window, avoiding looking at the other man.

“Holmes, I didn’t mean to –”

“There is no need to apologise, doctor. You were offering your honest critique, as I asked you to.”

“Please do not take it to mean that –”

“Mean what?” Sherlock snapped. “You disliked it, there’s nothing else to it.”

Silence frizzled over the tension as Sherlock tried to steady his breathing. He didn’t understand why he felt this way, why he was so affected that Watson didn’t receive his story as he expected him to. Understandably, Sherlock had poured his hard work into it and any writer would be displeased with criticism, but there was something different to the way Sherlock’s jaw clenched and his heart thumped as he increasingly lost his grip on objectivity.

He heard a soft laugh then, and turned in surprise to see an expression of amusement and relief on Watson’s face.

“Holmes, I didn’t dislike it. That’s not it at all. You misunderstand.” Watson smiled at him.

It was like a salve, Watson’s smile, smoothing over the very wounds cut by the doctor himself.

“What don’t I understand?” Sherlock asked.

“I liked the story. Very much. I did. It was brilliant, in fact.”

Sherlock flushed, turning to hide his pleasure.

“You think so?” he asked softly.

“I know so, Holmes. I’m beginning to suspect you must be some kind of genius. Or rather, I always knew that, but this confirms it. Sherrinford's case – what a case. What a detective. The method with which he tracks down the clues, the way he deduces Niagara Falls from a single drop of water… he reminds me of you.”

Sherlock was truly turning red now, determinedly staring out the window.

“So why did you say that?” he asked.

“What – that I thought it wasn’t finished?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Because it isn’t.”

Sherlock finally turned to face Watson, watching the doctor's curious expression. The look on his face was open, expectant, mouth smiling with fond kindness.

Watson approached him then and came to stand by him at the window. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small book, and then he turned it over in his hands hesitantly, as if he had cause to worry that Sherlock might laugh at him for having it. But he finally looked up at the taller man with confidence and a determined smile, holding the book out to him. 

“Have you read this?” he asked.

Sherlock took the book and studied it carefully, sighing as he came to realise what it was.

“I haven’t bothered.” He thrust the book back to Watson.

“No, keep it,” Watson said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, apprehensively withdrawing his outstretched hand.

“Holmes.” Watson drew closer, and Sherlock’s breath hitched inexplicably. “You – your character – is a genius. That much is true. He solves cases the way a hunter tracks down his prey. He’s precise, calculating, he’s never wrong. He’s a wonder. One of those fabled heroes, untouchable, unconquerable, undefeatable.” Watson’s eyes shone with a penetrating earnestness.

“But that’s precisely the problem. He’s so much of a… a marvel,” Watson lingered on the last word, staring deeply into Sherlock’s eyes. “That you have to believe that he might not be fully human.”

Sherlock swallowed, his breathing ragged. He backed away just a bit, inconspicuously, so Watson wouldn’t notice.

“I’m not interested in what people think of him," Sherlock said.

“Yes, you are.”

“Why does it matter, whether he’s ‘fully human’ or not? What is the alternative supposed to be – is he a machine?”

“I don’t know, Holmes. I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

It took Sherlock ten full seconds to recall what they had been talking about, so seized was he in Watson’s piercing gaze.

The doctor's eyes were definitely blue.

“So what do you suggest I do with him?” Sherlock finally managed to ask.

Watson smiled, gesturing to the book, tightly clutched in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock realised his unusually strong grip on the fragile book and released the tension in his hands, commanding himself to neutrality.

“I suggest you read that,” Watson said.

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“What good would this possibly do me? I am attempting to write the greatest mystery of our era, Watson, to make a mark on the history of literature.”

“By confounding your readers with your massive intellect?” Watson chided.

“It’s a mystery novel, Watson, not a love story!”

“Intellect is not the heart of a mystery. Intrigue is. Excitement, intensity, the paradox of good and evil, the complex workings of inner motivations and… desire. Desire is important too.”

"What does desire have to do with anything?" Sherlock asked, petulant.

Watson’s voice had lowered to a hoarse whisper. "Love and desire, as the basis of crime, is the darkest, most mysterious force, and intellect cannot possibly explain it." The man's low, steady tone washed over Sherlock like silk and warmth but Sherlock refused to let himself get distracted.

“And how exactly is this tripe supposed to help me with… all that?” He brandished Watson’s book in his hand.

“It might not. But there are elements to it I think might be helpful."

"Such as?"

"An insight into the duality of man. And hopefully, insight into the complexities of emotions."

Sherlock squinted at him, thinking over his words.  _The complexities of emotions?_ _I'm not a child, doctor._

Watson seemed to sense his friend's apprehension, and quickly added:

"And truthfully, it was the only book I had on me.”

Sherlock paused before he said his next word. Dr John Watson, ex-army captain, who was now only beginning to unpack his things in his room, just recovered from a limp that never needed exist, who just a few hours ago took a blade in his arm and shot a man, had only one book in his possession, and of all titles, it was Jane Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice_.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Watson chimed knowingly. “It was my sister’s. I took it with me to Afghanistan as a keepsake, to remind me of her. The lads poked fun at me for it, but thank the gods I decided to bring it with me. War is not always what you think it is. There are days of routine nothingness and even mud fights and campfires lose their novelty after a few months. A good book can help one restore sanity as much as good wine might deplete it. It was almost fortunate that when I returned from overseas, my sister no longer wanted it. She’s all grown up now. She doesn’t read love stories anymore.”

“And I should?”

“You should because you haven’t.”

Sherlock huffed, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.  _Of course I haven't read love stories._

“And what did you think of this… love story?” Sherlock asked, emphasising his disparaging tone. 

"I thought it was powerful, uplifting."

"A girlish account of all the tedious opinions on the many boring men of the countryside is powerful and uplifting?" Sherlock spat.

"Like I said, Holmes, it brought insight. And there's nothing I know less than _girlish_ minds," Watson teased sarcastically as Sherlock turned pink at his comment. 

"Oh? I should think that you would be rather acquainted with that," Sherlock replied softly.

"It's not their minds I'm acquainted with." Watson smiled briskly and Sherlock's eyes quickly darted away. "The point, Holmes, is that it's fascinating - to look into the minds of others, especially in circumstances we're not familiar with. And this presents a particular aspect of things you especially might not be familiar with. And it's a highly intelligent account as well. Don't you go underestimating the book, Sherlock Holmes, just because you think you're above it."

Sherlock paused, considering slowly how important Watson must have thought the book to be. It irked him a little that the doctor thought he needed to read anything at all, but the fact that the book held such a place in Watson's mind did lend it some distinction. 

"It was certainly welcome after a long day of fighting, lying in the trenches under the Afghan stars with a lamp by my head, reading of simple pleasures and simpler conflicts," Watson elaborated. 

Sherlock thumbed through the first few pages, settling on the introduction. He read:

 _“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”_ Sherlock looked up from the page, his quizzical expression sending Watson into a fit of laughter.

“Do you find that incomprehensible?” he asked, still chuckling.

“Do you find this _simple_?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“What – marriage? It’s complex in its ways, of course, but it speaks to our simple attraction to companionship.”

“I don’t understand,” muttered Sherlock dismissively as he turned away and paced to the middle of the room, thinking hard. “You think that in order to write a better mystery I should read this _romance_?”

“Yes,” Watson said plainly.

“Why?” Sherlock barked.

“Because you could learn a thing or two about sentiment, and it is precisely that which will give your story the weight it deserves.”

“You want me to make my story  _sentimental_?” Sherlock asked in horror.

Watson, paused, thinking.

“I want you to write to your fullest potential, Holmes. You are an incredible mind. We all know this. Anyone who knows you, who encounters you, they know this. But it isn’t completely you, not all of it, if you only write from the mind.”

“How do you know what is all of me?”

“Because I know you for real.” Watson said this with such confidence and surety that Sherlock exhaled sharply with the full brunt of the statement’s meaning, raising his head in understanding of Watson’s seriousness.

“Write from the heart, Holmes. If your mind is as amazing as it is, I'm intrigued to see how much your heart can achieve.”

Sherlock stood completely silent, aware only of his heavy breathing and fingers coiled tightly around the small book.

“Goodnight, Holmes,” Watson said from where he stood at the window, before proceeding to head upstairs to his room, a small smile on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock teaches John how to box. He has never felt more vulnerable in his life. 
> 
> AKA Watson is a cheeky, flirty BAMF and this drives Sherlock to the point of insanity as he is forced to make a startling deduction about himself.

“What do men such as yourself do for entertainment in London?”

Sherlock looked up from his book to see Watson standing over him. Sherlock had been sitting in his armchair, face buried in a chapter, reading the most interesting account of Wickham’s true nature and his betrayal of the Darcy family.

How he loathed Wickham, and spent the past two frenzied nights poring over the book silently shouting at Darcy to stop being so ridiculous, to cease his frustrating behaviour and speak not like an imbecile but like a poet to Elizabeth. He was caught up in the book, and though he didn't want to admit it, it certainly did make him even more of a recluse recently.

“Pardon?” he sputtered, watching Watson’s amused gaze.

“I’m bored, Holmes.” Watson smiled, and it was almost devilish. “You’ve been absorbed in that book, day and night. What am I to do when my companion has taken to ignoring me?”

Sherlock felt his face flush as he quickly put the book away, marking in his memory the page number and precise line where he had stopped reading.

“You asked me to read it,” he said defensively.

“I did, but I did not ask to be neglected.”

“Don’t you have to be at Bart's?”

“It’s a Saturday, Holmes.”

“Oh.” Sherlock stood slowly, eyeing Watson’s curiously playful expression. He hadn’t expected that acquiring a fellow-lodger meant entertaining them, and normally he wouldn’t have cared, but he needed Watson to stay.

He didn’t know why.

“There are many things to do in London, no? Is that not what you claimed?” Watson pressed.

“There are,” Holmes insisted. “We can take a walk –”

“I’m done with walks.”

“Well…”

What was Holmes to do? Invite Watson to an opium den? Ask him along to one of those macabre wax museums or house of horrors Sherlock was so fond of? Take him to Bart’s to beat corpses with canes and whips?

“You box,” Watson suddenly declared.

“What?”

“You’re a boxer. Bare-knuckle.”

"I am." Sherlock glanced down to where Watson’s eyes were trained on his hands. The unmistakeable signs of wear and damage trailed across his knuckles, old though they were.

“I saw the way you moved that day when we were attacked by Locke. Swift defence, clever prediction of his moves. And of course, I saw your hands. Though they’re quite healed now, indicating you hadn’t sparred for some time. Maybe a week. I am rather embarrassed I never noticed them before. Funny how I would not have known if I didn't ask that day, whether or not you practiced martial arts.”

"Yes," Sherlock smiled fondly, brimming with affection and pride at how Watson had quickly learned how to be observant in the short time they have been living together. "You're learning fast." 

Watson returned the smile, though he quickly turned away.

“So, shall we?” he asked.

“Go to a match?”

Watson laughed, though it was a soft one, the corners of his mouth rising slightly, one after the other. It was cheeky, bold.

“No,” he simply said.

“You don’t want to go to a match?”

“I want to box.”

Sherlock gaped at the doctor, the quiet, kind man with layers and layers of complexities he had just come to know and accept as his truest companion, his only friend, and wondered at all the aspects of him he has yet to discover.

“You want to box,” Sherlock repeated.

“Yes.”

“You’re injured.” Sherlock wasn’t aware what had happened to make his tone rise into a harsh reprimand, but nevertheless he fixed Watson with an incredulous look.

“Yes, I am aware of that. And I’ve never been to such matches, much less compete in any of them. But it _has_ been over a week, and I _am_ a fighter, and I have fought countless men. And I’m in the spirit for such encounters today.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“When a friend turns on his promises to entertain me, I do tend to become quite ridiculous.”

“It’s no excuse. They won’t let you in the ring like this, and I certainly won’t take you there.”

“I never said I want to be taken there,” Watson said pointedly. “Like I said, I don’t know much about bare-knuckle boxing. The way we used to fight, when things got dull in Afghanistan – that had no technique. We would just get together, take jabs at each other when the lads were looking for entertainment and a quick adrenaline rush. No technique at all, we’d just rush at each other, wrestle in the mud.”

A vision of the good doctor standing under the Afghan sun invaded Sherlock's mind. Watson's hair was rumpled and his body streaked red with the sand, bare torso glistening with sweat as he paced in circles facing off another soldier, grinning with anticipation and boyish excitement. Youthful, full. He would snarl, loud and brave as he rushed at the other man, tackling his torso like he did Locke and together tumble to the ground, kicking up dust as the spectating soldiers cheered on Captain John Watson...

“Holmes?” Watson’s face was creased with worry as Sherlock snapped out of his momentary daydream, heart racing.

“Watson,” he breathed, like the name was an anchor that could hold him steady, like it was a buoy that could could pull him back to the surface.

“I’m sorry – I can leave if you're busy –”

“No!” Sherlock cried, hand jerking up in response, reaching out to Watson. “Stay,” he whispered.

Watson frowned and he seemed taken aback with the gravity in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock, in turn, berated himself internally. _Don’t ruin it. Don’t repel him. Think of something._

“I can teach you,” Sherlock blurted.

“Teach me?”

“Yes. How to fight like a bare-knuckle boxer.”

“So there’s a technique to it,” Watson muttered to himself, as if it was a longstanding issue in his mind.

“Not very many,” Sherlock said softly. “But you’re injured, and perhaps it’s wiser for you to spar first with someone who knows of the extent of your injury.”

“That, Sherlock Holmes, was precisely what I was suggesting.” Watson smiled devilishly, stressing Sherlock’s name sarcastically, almost mockingly. "Though you do exaggerate the  _extent of my injury."_

Before Sherlock could respond, Watson was already shrugging off his coat. As he undid the buttons of his vest he looked up and gave Sherlock a quick smile.

“Get a move on, then,” he said.

Like a machine that just finished winding Sherlock sprang suddenly into action, throwing off his blue dress robe, hastily working at his own buttons.

"There’s no need to bluster, Holmes. It is curious enough that we hide behind closed curtains and discard our clothes in the presence of one another, but to do so with such curious silence adds an element of questionable tension to it, does it not? Should we be seen like this, people might talk.” Watson grinned.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was simply chiding him, but nevertheless he couldn’t find it in himself to speak, not when he was so desperately averting his eyes from the man before him slowly undressing.

"They do little else," Sherlock murmured. 

“We should do our best to look at ease with one another, shouldn’t we? You do feel at ease with me, don’t you?” Watson continued. 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up, his bright greens screaming a resounding, desperate _yes, of course, always_ that somehow didn’t make it out his mouth, because Captain John Watson was standing before him now, torso bare, the dark shadows of their flat curving around him lasciviously in a way that made Sherlock burn with envy. If only he were the particles in the light and darkness, if only he were omnipotent and airborne, he would know all of John intimately and wholly and it would never be impossible –

_John?_

No – John Watson, Captain John Watson. His _friend_ and  _flatmate._

Captain, not doctor, because for the first time Sherlock could see the source of Watson’s invalidation home – a gunshot wound scar blazing out from its point of entry like the imprint of a flare, a dying star, on his shoulder. And on his other arm, bandages carefully wrapped around a more recent wound. How brave he must be. Scars like these marked men of remarkable character, and what a remarkable man John Watson was.

Sherlock shuddered at his own thoughts.  _What on earth is wrong with me?_

“Holmes?” Watson prodded gently.

Sherlock shrugged off the silk from his shoulder, his shirt falling as he caught it in his hand and folded it, placing it on his chair.

“Lend a hand, will you?” Watson said, pushing all obstructing furniture out of the way to make a clear space in the middle of the room.

Sherlock barely made it to push his own chair towards the bookshelves. His body felt so slow, immobile even. It was like his mind was working overtime to process the very fact that he and Watson were standing in their flat in this manner, that when Watson bent to clear discarded papers off the floor under Sherlock’s writing desk his back muscles curved and shifted, or that when he turned to look at Sherlock, the light from the lamp on the table bounced off his golden chest, soft sandy hairs and blemishes and scars adorning the landscape that was his torso.

Sherlock suddenly became rather aware, and ashamed, of his own unmarked, pale skin.

“Shall we?” Watson murmured, turning to face Sherlock from a distance away.

Sherlock held his hands up in sparring position, eyes trained on Watson.

“Watch your opponent,” Sherlock began instructing, his voice still a little shaky. He cleared his throat to rid it of all traces of uncertainty. “Some men like to watch the eyes, some like watching the middle. Know the man enough, and you’ll know what his next action is. Anticipate it, prepare a defence, and when you’re more advanced the defence itself becomes a counter-attack. The peak form for this sort of fight, I would say, is when even your defences are attacks, and all your attacks are defences.”

Watson mirrored the positioning of Sherlock’s hands. He gave a fleeting jab in Sherlock’s direction, grinning as Sherlock dodged it in surprise.

“It works,” Watson mused to himself.

“Of course it works," Sherlock said.

“Because you know me well.”

Sherlock exhaled, commanding himself to concentrate. He aimed a punch at Watson, who likewise dodged.

“Good,” Sherlock said. “I needn't spend much time instructing you on basics, you clearly know enough in that area. Moving on to footwork then.”

“Shouldn’t you have started with footwork?”

“No, because I don’t care for it.”

Watson laughed, head thrown back. Sherlock’s eyes lingered on the exposed skin of his neck.  _Good lord, he's golden, isn't he?_

“So how about some tedious footwork then?” Watson jested.

"The professionals will tell you to use your feet to distract your opponent. Trick him into anticipating the wrong move. They will tell you to be light on your feet, they will tell you to let the dominant leg take the lead as the other follows behind, they’ll tell you to avoid crossing them. They’ll tell you to think like a snake, move like a crab. I think it’s all rubbish. My philosophy is simple – take as few steps as possible, to move as much as possible.”

Sherlock demonstrated by backing up a little, before lunging forwards in two wide steps to take Watson by surprise, smacking him lightly on his abdomen.

“Do block,” Sherlock said as he withdrew, rolling his eyes.

“But I didn’t know you were coming at me.” Watson playfully rubbed a sympathetic hand over where Sherlock hit him, though Sherlock was sure to make the blow a very light one, almost caressing.

“You might have known that if you were watching me.”

“I was.”

“Watch me closer.”

Somehow Sherlock’s words sparked a change in the room. Where Watson was light-hearted and even playful before, something darkened over him – the thrill of a challenge, the thirst for competition. His expression mellowed and became focussed, his posture tensed as his eyes hungrily assessed Sherlock.

It had a different effect on Sherlock than Watson probably wanted it to have.

“You may know this as a doctor yourself, but I find the best place to attack is the neck, though it is one of the more well-guarded and difficult to access. I always count on the move disabling them enough that I’ll have more time to take jabs at more crucial areas like the abdomen. You can also always go for the eyes if you want, but even I find that rather ungentlemanly.”

“Sherlock Holmes being polite in the ring?” Watson asked with a chortle.

“I am polite,” Sherlock countered, unable to mask the elevation of pitch in his voice.

“You’re brilliant, you’re inexplicable, you’re unexpected, but you’re not polite.” Watson smiled at him, though his eyes were dark. The effect was immediate.

“Punch me,” Sherlock suddenly said.

“What?”

“Punch me. You heard me clearly, I needn’t repeat myself like you always make me. Punch me in the face.”

“Why?” Watson frowned at him.

“To see how hard you can punch.”

“I’m perfectly capable of throwing punches.”

“But you’re injured. Perhaps you’ve come to lack vivacity. Perhaps –”

“Oh, I do not lack vivacity, Holmes. You should know that.”

_Is he flirting? He is flirting. He has been flirting. John Watson is –_

“Oh for goodness sake,” Sherlock growled, more to himself than to Watson, but next thing he knew he was striking at the other man, fist coming down against the side of his head.

Watson stumbled, but he didn’t fall. The strike wasn’t too hard; Sherlock had acted out of impulse and was barely sure of where he was going with that.

From his bent position at the other side of the room, Watson turned to glare up at Sherlock, incredulity and anger burning in his eyes.

_Dear God._

It wasn’t as if Sherlock didn’t see it coming. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know immediately as he saw Watson’s feet shift, his fist curl, his nostrils flare, his eyes burn. He knew, but for some reason he let it happen.

With a low growl Watson dashed at him and swung, fist colliding with earth-shattering force against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock crashed backwards into his chair, conveniently placed behind him, and before he could regain his senses, Watson was lunging at him again, climbing on top of him.

Sherlock’s eyes refocussed just in time to see Watson raise another fist, and this time he was quick enough to block it with his own forearm and push Watson to the ground with his other hand.

Panic suddenly tore through Sherlock as he jolted up to see how Watson had landed, whether it was safely on his back or on his injured side, for which Sherlock might never forgive himself for bringing about.

But Watson only reached out to pull Sherlock down, and Sherlock crashed face-first onto the carpet floor next to Watson. Sherlock summoned all his energy into scrambling to his feet, only to be hit with a great impact on his back as the smaller man had quickly maneuvered himself into a more advantageous position, jumping onto Sherlock's back and locking him in place with a tight arm around his throat.

Sherlock felt his knees give in, Watson still holding on.

Sherlock closed his eyes and arrested the moment in his mind. He wasn’t sure how one punch had led to this, but now Watson was pressed against his back, his hard muscles and warm skin burning against Sherlock, the feeling of their mingling sweat bringing an enticing, delicious sense of illicit intimacy. Watson’s breath came out in ragged, hot puffs against Sherlock’s ringing ear, and somehow it was a balm, soothing the ache that Watson himself had inflicted. Sherlock held onto the restricting arm Watson had laced around his neck, feeling the soft hairs on his arm and toned definition, and though he was choking, he felt that his breath came out as a sigh. He clutched at Watson’s arm not with the urgency to remove it, but rather to hold it in place.

Something was certainly happening to Sherlock, something dreadful and unspeakable, and he didn't understand it. It was alarming. 

In his surge of panic, he lost his grip on the moment and time resumed normally. He felt himself strain against Watson's forceful arm again.

“You seem to forget that I was an army doctor, which means I could break every bone in your body while naming them,” Watson growled in Sherlock’s ear.

 _Oh._ Sherlock's breath involuntarily hitched and for a second he was sure he might truly choke right then.

But Sherlock was an excellent fighter. He almost always won his fights, if he wasn’t matched against someone too overpowering. And why he hadn’t acted before he wasn’t sure, but now he needed to.

His elbow swung backward to jab roughly into Watson’s abdomen, causing the smaller man to shout in surprise as he released his stranglehold on Sherlock. But the captain was stronger than Sherlock had anticipated, and he recovered quickly, rushing at Sherlock with a menacing look just as Sherlock turned to face him.

Sherlock felt the wind being knocked out of him as John’s good shoulder smashed into his centre, sending the both of them crashing onto the carpet.

“That’s not an orthodox boxing move!” Sherlock choked.

“I don’t care,” Watson growled through gritted teeth, attempting to pin Sherlock down.

But Sherlock struggled against him, trying his best to ignore the touch of their bare torsos, the slide of sweat, the scent of the captain.

Sherlock shuddered at his next full breath of Watson, and in the moment of clarity it seemed to spark in him he was able to tangle his legs with the captain's, twisting the man’s body so that he contorted awkwardly, giving Sherlock the opportunity to push him off and to the side, as he rolled on top of Watson instead.

Time stopped again, though involuntarily.

It was frightening almost, how the laws of space and time, the very mechanics of the universe, were utterly obliterated where Watson was concerned. How with only a look or a sound, the captain would bring complete chaos to a world Sherlock had ordered so meticulously in his mind by all its predictability and logic. 

Sherlock froze in the blue of Watson’s eyes, looking up at him in a daze of mild surprise and breathlessness. They were cobalt, they were sky, they were ocean, they were steel, it was the deepest colour he had ever seen in his life, the most complex and changeable and indescribable amalgamation of waves and layers of blue lovingly overlapping one another as they melted into the perfect circles of Watson's irises. His chest ached at the sight – this was the curse of the artist: that when they finally felt, railing against the haze of their booze and drug-induced apathy, it always had to hurt in some way. It had to physically affect them as if the very chemicals in their bodies were boiling with emotion, waking them up from their previous states of wandering that thin line between loneliness and limbo. Feeling, for the artist, always had to be life-changing. And this was certainly one of those pivotal moments - those singular events of cosmic significance that would inspire art in all its renditions and consume the artist as much as the artist consumed it, and Sherlock knew if he was a painter, all his works would revolve around the blue of John Watson's eyes. He'd paint oceans and skies and every part of it would be a tribute to this impossible emotion that this very particular blue invoked in Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s arms strained with the pressure of holding himself up, or was his whole body shivering, so broken and healed at the same time with the realisation of a truth Watson himself must surely know by now?

"Brilliant," Watson suddenly said from below him, those eyes sparkling with wonder. In that moment they were gems, and Sherlock understood then why jewels and crystals were deemed precious, because when you looked into them, you saw every facet of yourself reflected in their impossible light.

The rush of emotion coursing through Sherlock's body nearly knocked all the remaining wind from him, and he gasped desperately as he quickly rolled off Watson, clutching at his chest.

 _Why does it feel this way?_ Like a fist had been shoved into his chest and was twisting his heart around, abusing it wickedly.

“Holmes,” Watson panted, rising to his feet, a small smile on his face.

Sherlock turned to look at him and knew then that he could die, he could die right now rather than face Watson.

“That was brilliant,” Watson huffed, his smile widening. “You’re a bloody good fighter, man. That was a good fight."

"You – you too,” Sherlock panted. He wasn’t tired. He was used to the physical demands of boxing. But he was grasping for air, for reality. Because this can’t be reality. It was fantasy, wasn’t it? To allow yourself to go into freefall, to yearn, to long, to desire. It was mythical. It was supposed to be.

And to desire a man? Impossible.

“Holmes, are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock shouted, backing away suddenly.

Watson fixed him with a knowing gaze laced with concern. 

 _D_ _id he know? He can’t know. He cannot._ And yet the smaller man’s expression continued to soften.

“You can tell me if something is wrong,” Watson pressed.

_Everything is wrong._

“Did I hurt you?” Watson continued.

_You are leaving me out to bleed in the blistering cold to be fed on by parasites and scavengers._

“Holmes, this is worrying.”

“It’s not your job to worry about me,” Sherlock suddenly snapped.

Watson cocked his head, affronted.

“It is, in fact. I am a doctor –”

“Enough!” Sherlock bellowed. “I don’t care what you do – you’re not _my_ doctor!”

“I don’t have to be your doctor to care about you!”

_You’ll never be my anything._

“Have I entertained you enough, doctor? Have I kept your demons at bay long enough that you won’t have to sulk about being bored anymore? You don’t have to be here, you know. You can go back to whatever back country you came from and do just fine there, there’s no need for you to tolerate this hateful city, no need for you to pull crazy stunts and come in here with your arm still bandaged looking for a bloody fight as if you have something to prove – you have nothing more to prove to yourself, _captain,_ the war is over and there’s no need for all that machismo anymore. Perhaps you need to channel it, I understand that – simple minds need simple stimulation, but why must you bother me with your ridiculous griping? I am a busy man, Watson, I am not your nurse!”

A small crease had formed over Watson’s forehead, the unconditional kindness in his eyes earlier was gone now, the flirtatious curve of his sincere smile flattened, his jaw slacked into a shocked daze.

He stood this way for a while longer, Sherlock determinedly staring away as his chest huffed with the exertion of all the manufactured rage he had managed to sum up for that performance.

“Good Lord,” was all Watson whispered. He then turned away and took his clothes with him as he marched out the door and up to his room.

It was all very sudden, and Sherlock let out a soft gasp as soon as he heard Watson’s door slam, hand rising to clutch at his chest again. He quickly scrambled over to his chair and slid his shirt and the rest of his clothes back on, promptly wandering over to fall onto the settee as if all his bones had turned to jelly.

He stared straight ahead as he let the emotions in him quieten, and from the corner of his eye he spotted a shape on the plush red of the cushions.

He picked it up – it was Watson’s copy of _Pride and Prejudice._

He wanted to throw it mercilessly into a corner of the room and shout abuse at it, but for the life of him, he couldn’t. He caressed the cover tenderly in his hands, and then he held it up to his chest as the cool cover pressed comfortingly over the searing burn in his chest, calming desperate breaths and ragged thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive poor Sherlock his outburst. It is a lot to handle for him, but it'll all be resolved soon enough ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock did something a bit not good.  
> tw: drugs, internalised homophobia

If Sherlock had been trying to push Watson away with his outburst after their bout of boxing the other day, he had certainly succeeded.

It has been three days since they last interacted. Sherlock marvelled at it: Watson’s most particular skill with avoidance.

He had heard his footsteps – the only sign of the doctor's continued state of existence – going up and down the stairs in 221B. He had heard doors slam, the mild hums of chatter as Watson greeted Mrs Hudson each morning as he went down for breakfast. However, Watson had not set foot in the living room, and Sherlock did wonder what the man could have possibly been doing to keep himself occupied when he wasn't at work.

After all, the doctor did get restless quite easily.

It was this thought that sent Sherlock into a fit of anxious pacing about the flat on Tuesday morning, while Watson had already departed for his day’s work, and Sherlock was left in the cavernous solitude of the flat to muse about his friend.

What did he get up to? Who did he talk to? How was he feeling?

_Does he hate me?_

Sherlock couldn’t tell himself why he behaved so strangely, though he did know why. He just couldn’t accept it.

He let his imagination run wild. He thought of the doctor, speaking to a room full of students, telling them stories of his time in Afghanistan, stories he had not told Sherlock. He thought of Watson and Stamford having tea, commentating on the progresses of each other’s lives, affable and casual. He thought of the ladies Watson might meet, the ones who might entrance him, and him taking their hand in his, planting a reverent kiss.

Sherlock plonked down on his armchair in despair, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

This _thing_ that was inside him, this frenzy, this preoccupation – he must kill it. Because it is becoming quite unbearable.

And in truth, if he didn’t kill it, it might kill him.

What he felt – it was abominable, wasn’t it? It was inverted, unnatural. But then, Sherlock didn’t fully believe this. There was no logic to it – the idea that who you desired was valid or not depending on whether you could call that person sir or madam. 

 _Why does it matter?_ He thought bitterly, hating everything a little more then, hating the world and its rules and its disapproval and how it made him flinch at himself.

But then it does matter. It does matter, doesn’t it? Because Watson was part of this world. And this dark need Sherlock felt was sinful and false, when Watson himself was anything but. Watson was upright and true.

Sherlock was bent, broken. He must be, to be this way.

He couldn’t recall anyone else besides the doctor who had been able to consume him with such intensity of infinite emotions before. When he was a child, there were a few individuals. Cousins whose names he has long forgotten, a friend in school who had smiled at with almost the same trust and tenderness afforded to him by Watson. But none of those people ever mattered. If Sherlock had felt _wrong_ about them, he could simply push them away. And he did feel wrong about them, because he _was_ wrong. It might explain why he has never pursued any company beyond the platonic, and even that was scarce. 

But now Sherlock has pushed Watson away, and the doctor has gone and taken this secret of Sherlock's with him, so that now Sherlock sat alone half mad from all the aching.

It was all getting a bit too much.

He quickly stood and went to his bedroom, throwing open the doors of his cupboard with impatience. His hands flurried through the stacks of clothes until he found a small Chinese box wedged in between, tucked away by its possessor who intended to conceal it. With relish he stalked out to the living room with it.

He sat back on his armchair and opened the box, perusing its contents for some time before settling on something suitable.

Opiate, derived from the Latin _opium:_ poppy juice. Poppies: thought to symbolise commemoration, resurrection, peace. Sherlock thinks these are all just euphemisms for death. Morphine: to dull pain, incidentally an opiate, which in a figurative sense serves to dull feelings.

It clicked into place. Morphine dulls the difficult questions, those emotions that feel like death.

Which means it works for today.

Sherlock felt the dull haze slowly wrap its loving embrace around him as soon as the drugs set in. The boiling in his chest calmed to a simmer, the chaos in his mind dispersed. He sighed contentedly, slipping lower in his armchair and savouring the bliss of nothingness, the wonderment of this manufactured serenity.

But still, John Watson found a way to wander into his mind.

The only thing that was different was that Sherlock now didn’t care. He found himself greeting this imaginary Watson with no reservations, smiling as if nothing had happened between them. This spectre of Watson had smiled back, warm and full.

He indulged himself in the vision of the doctor for what seemed like eons, savouring every aspect of him that Sherlock had memorised and catalogued and filed away in his mind for moments such as these. 

“How can I help you, doctor?” Sherlock slurred, finally humouring himself in the performance of his fantasy.

“You can stop calling me doctor. My name is John,” the imaginary Watson had said matter-of-factly, but Sherlock’s heart lurched uncharacteristically and he felt himself panic.

Were the drugs wearing away so soon? In a crazed desperation he reached for his box again and rummaged around for something, not fully registering what he picked up as he injected it into his system.

The effects were astoundingly unexpected. Sherlock groaned into his chair and squirmed before leaping out, his box crashing to the floor.

The ghost of the doctor wouldn’t come back to him now.

Sherlock wailed in frustration, pacing as he scratched his hands in his hair, cursing himself for being so careless.

His fingers were twitching, hands straining to do something.

_I think I’m in trouble, doctor. I think I might need the hospital._

But there was no doctor. He wasn’t here, he wasn’t in the flat with Sherlock, he wasn’t present in the moment, he wouldn’t even come to Sherlock’s imagination now –

A stray thought crashed into Sherlock’s mind and he froze in his steps, his mouth forming a wide O as a realisation slowly bubbled up within him. It was like a snake of an idea, slithering apprehensively, coiled with tension and dangerous to approach. Thankfully, Sherlock's frantic mind knew no boundaries. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, half-pleased with himself. 

He strode quickly to his bedroom and got down on all fours to peer under his bed. With a confident swipe he reached into the shadows and felt for the object he knew to be there. His hand contacted cold metal, and he pulled his typewriter out.

He marched back out to the living room and set the typewriter down on the desk, stocking it with papers and testing its ribbon.

It was certainly the effects of whatever he had taken that had brought on such a strong surge of inspiration, as well as surprising cognizance as to the whereabouts of his long lost typewriter.

And the idea he was struck with now, the one that rattled off in his chest and mind so resoundingly, was one he needed to flesh out immediately, before his muse leaves him.

He stared at the paper, thinking, and then he began to type:

_“In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army…”_

Sherlock wrote with a frenzied focus he had not had for far too long. The story he had been carving out, that of William Sherrinford the genius detective, was now being turned into something else. He gave his story a new beginning, a new narrator, a new _sentimentality_ , a flair that had been previously so lacking in his manuscript that it had felt like a flimsy skeleton, without all the density of flesh and blood to hold it together.

He was drawing from real life, this was certain. As to what real life was, it was what Sherlock imagined to be the world as seen through the eyes of John Watson.

_“Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out…”_

He would change the names, of course. Would it really be so curious if he wrote of a war many had surely fought in? Perhaps there were other things he could have written, but his fingers refused to comply with his doubts. They thundered on, drawing out on this life of Watson’s Sherlock had so often daydreamed about.

_“The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster…_

_“Worn with pain… My health irretrievably ruined…”_

_“Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence…”_

And then came what would surely be Sherlock’s favourite part: the introduction of William Sherrinford, through a chance meeting between the narrator and the hero much like how John Watson came to know Sherlock Holmes.

“ _Without having spoken a word to him before, and with my full trust that information regarding my person could not have possibly made it to him in the short time it took me to come down to Bart’s, the man somehow knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me, about how I was returned from Afghanistan wounded, and he deduced immediately that I was there because I was in need of new lodgings._

_Truthfully speaking, it was bewildering. Sherrinford could quite possibly be insane. He was certainly arrogant and unorthodox in his manners and, yes, I definitely think he might be insane, but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming._

_So tomorrow, I will be looking at rooms with him. Me and the madman. Me and William Sherrinford.”_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers Sherlock's habit.

Sherlock awoke with a start, surprised to see that he had been curled up on the floor.

His head ached and his mouth was dry, his limbs heavy as he tried to stand. Everything was foggy, but even then Sherlock was able to sense that he was not alone. Something else was the source of his awakening, after all. Sherlock usually slept for hours on end after days like these.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” a strained voice cut through the silence in the flat. Sherlock turned his head briefly and saw the doctor standing by the door, still clutching his hat as he watched Sherlock struggle with himself to stand up straight.

“Hello, doctor,” Sherlock murmured, still dazed. “It’s been a while since you’ve been down here. It is your apartment too, you know.”

“What the devil have you done?” Watson choked out. Sherlock looked up at the man’s face, and what he saw took him aback. Lines of worry and sadness were etched in Watson’s tired face, his eyes glossy with shock and pain as they roamed frantically over the scene before him.

Watson then held up a small syringe in his hand, waiting expectantly for an explanation.

“Oh,” Sherlock began, finally recognising what he had used on himself after the initial bout of morphine. “Cocaine.”

“Co – what? Holmes, this cannot be.”

“It can.” Sherlock straightened out his robes, standing fully to face John. “I am a hapless addict, Watson. That’s all there is to it.”

When Watson had first moved in, it was pivotal for Sherlock to keep his drug habit a secret. He couldn't have the doctor finding out, not just because he knew he would be stopped, but also because he dreaded the deterioration of his reputation in the eyes of the doctor. Sherlock thought it funny how he had been so self-conscious even then when Watson was hardly more than a stranger to him, when in the past Sherlock had been decidedly indifferent to everyone else's concerns over his vices and hobbies, even his family. But now, his admission came tumbling out of him like fragile ornaments being knocked off a mantelpiece - the crash was inevitable.

The doctor appeared to struggle heavily with composing himself before muttering in a shaky breath,

“When we first met, you said we should know the worst about each other. You said that. I remember it. I remember everything about that day. But you never mentioned this.”

“Right,” Sherlock looked away, already regretting his carelessness, “and you didn’t tell me about your night terrors.”

“My night – what?”

“Night terrors, Watson. When you wake up at night in your bed shouting –”

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Watson snarled the last word, “transfer the scrutiny onto me. No. This is about you. You and your despicable _habit._ I come up here to invite you for tea and find that you - that you - _how could you?”_

"Because I can, Watson. Why does it matter?”  _And why would you want to have tea with me?_

“It matters because you could get hurt.”

“I know what I’m doing, doctor. I am incredibly proficient in the chemistry of –”

“I don’t care!” Watson shouted, and Sherlock fell silent. “I don’t care if you can make them yourself, or if you know everything there is to know about them, Holmes. That is in fact, actually the point. You have the brain of a god, an intellect for centuries - and you think wasting it all away on this is a good idea?”

“I am not wasting anything away. In fact, this helps me think. I’ll have you know that it helped me –”

“I don’t want to know! I know it is dangerous and I know it is ruinous. That is all that matters. And there are many more facets to this, Holmes –”

“Pray tell, doctor, why do you suddenly care?” Sherlock challenged, the betrayal of Watson’s absence over the past three days flaring up within him. The doctor had said he had come up to invite Sherlock for tea - why? Why do that at this inconvenient time when the doctor had been so happily ignoring Sherlock for the past few days? In truth, Sherlock was annoyed. Granted, Sherlock did initially give off the impression that he wished to be left alone after their boxing session, but he couldn't help the feeling of abandonment and injustice that welled up inside him at the thought that the doctor had accepted his exile so freely. The intense bitterness that had burned in him whenever he thought about the doctor going about his day without a thought of Sherlock, or worse still, in the company of another, had in essence, rendered Sherlock sleepless for most of the past two nights. It was incredibly childish for him to feel this way, and he knew it. But as with every other feeling he had for Watson, he couldn't help it. 

“Excuse me?” asked Watson in a rightfully indignant tone. 

“You’ve been absent, you’ve been intentionally avoiding me, but now you’re in the living room sneaking and demanding justifications for the things I do on my own time for my own recreation.”

Watson exhaled, his eyes burning with anger.

“I’ve been absent because – because you – it doesn’t matter. Do I not have the right to demand of you the normal task of taking care of yourself?”

“I have no obligation to you,” Sherlock whispered softly, hoping the doctor would brush his statement off. 

"It's not about you being obligated to me, Holmes. It's about your own obligation to yourself."

"Then let me worry about myself, and you stay out of it!" Sherlock snapped.

"I only worry for you because I'm your friend!" Watson fired back, and even his strong tone couldn't help but shake a little with the force of his emotion. 

"I don't have friends," Sherlock declared with venom, narrowing his eyes at Watson even as he felt his chest constrict at his own statement. 

The doctor recoiled, and then nodded stiffly, looking as if he had been suddenly slapped across the face. He sniffed and looked away, biding his time as he thought of his response. 

“I would quite like to destroy every ounce of this filth in your possession,” breathed Watson dangerously.

“You can try. You have the one box, I have many.”

“I will find all of them.”

“I will stop you.”

Sherlock hadn’t even realised they had been inching closer and closer to one another with every exchange, but now they were practically breathing in the face of the other. Sherlock smelt soap and tobacco and the outside and that scent that was distinctly Watson’s, which made Sherlock think of soft rain pattering against the window as he lounged lazily on the settee, of a hot cup of tea as he first breaks its surface with his lips and lets them linger so he can feel the exquisite warmth, of fog on a misty night in the countryside just after a storm when the grass was soft under your feet and the air was luxuriously heavy... but the look in the doctor’s eyes did not match with those scenes and the comfort afforded by what Sherlock associated his scent with. Instead Watson looked almost deadly as he breathed out with the remainder of his faltering composure:

“Then you will be reminded, quite forcibly, which of us is a soldier and which of us is a drug addict.”

Sherlock paused, allowing the sentence to punch him word by word in his core.

“My dear Watson, you are allowing emotion to cloud your judgement,” he whispered.

“Because I am human! Are you not also? Do you not have emotion? The Lord strike me, for being emotional about so shocking a revelation! How could I not be emotional, Holmes? Do you have a technique you would like to share? Does it involve copious amounts of narcotics?” Watson was positively screaming his sarcasm now, and Sherlock was silent in his contemplation of the doctor’s outburst. “You will hold yourself to a higher standard, Holmes. Because you deserve to. Because people need you to.”

“People? What people?” Sherlock snapped.

Watson bristled, looking away as Sherlock saw what was surely colour tinging his cheeks.

“Me. I do. I need you to,” he whispered shortly, and it cut Sherlock like a knife in the dark.

“Why?” Sherlock barely managed.

“Because I – I am happy to play the fool for you. Turn a blind eye to everything impossibly unusual about you. Run after you as if my need for companionship revolves wholly around you. And maybe it does. But this, I cannot ignore.”

Sherlock’s heart was about to beat right out of his chest. The weight of Watson’s words hung over him as he took a moment to process them. _I am happy to play the fool for you._ Sherlock inhaled. _My need for companionship revolves wholly around you_ _._ But something else interrupted his thoughts from the back of his head - the implications of Watson's last sentence suddenly became inexplicably urgent:  _But this, I cannot ignore._ The realisation that dawned on Sherlock might as well have been delivered as a bullet to his head.

Watson was going to leave. Fellow lodgers should know the worst about each other, and now Watson knows, he wants to leave.

The resulting rush of sensations to his head, coupled with the aftereffects of the drugs, made Sherlock feel like throwing up.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock panted, stepping away in a haze and crashing onto the settee, clutching his chest.

“Holmes!”

Watson rushed after him, one of his warm hands holding the back of Sherlock's neck as worry clouded over the doctor's face.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sherlock murmured.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot.”

“It’s February.”

“I promise, I’m fine.”

“Whatever the case, let’s get you into bed.”

Watson hoisted Sherlock up and draped one of his limp arms over his good shoulder, supporting his weight as they made their way to Sherlock’s bedroom.

Gently, Watson helped lower Sherlock onto his bed, pulling the covers over him and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“You get some rest. Sleep it off,” he murmured soothingly. The anger that had been in his voice and face earlier seemed to have completely faded, to be replaced only by a softness Sherlock ardently committed to memory, before blacking out as he let exhaustion consume him. His utter unresponsiveness over the next few hours was going to be for the best, as he decided that he was going to sleep until Watson has left, so that he wouldn’t have to watch him go.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock prepares for Watson's departure.

Sherlock might have dreamt, he might have had nightmares, he might have been suffocating in the vast pit of his slumbering mind during the night, but none of it would have mattered. Because when he finally felt the warmth and bright light streaming in from the window hit his face, he sat up with a jolt, alert and unencumbered by the remnants of what might have been any disturbing fantasies, as he was now singularly focussed on an individual thought:

He was alone.

He lived in an apartment for two, but he was now alone.

He was alone because he let his only friend see the most secret and intolerable side of him.

And now John Watson was gone.

The doctor had said so himself, that this was the end of it:  _But this, I cannot ignore._

Sherlock inhaled deeply, feeling his breath come with a long, shaken sting in his chest.

Perhaps this was for the best. The doctor couldn’t possibly be around him that much longer, not just because of the drugs, but because of something else potentially more dangerous - yet another thing that was wrong about Sherlock.

Sherlock had never felt like he ever was an inconvenience to anyone. That was probably because he never truly cared about anyone else’s wellbeing, but the idea of dragging John Watson down with him into his own pit of degeneracy was revolting. He pushed the thought out of his mind and commanded himself to think of nothing.

But try as he did to linger on blissful nothingness, he couldn’t ignore the blossoming ache in his chest – it was as if Watson himself had cut him open and was gripping his heart with such violent strength that all of Sherlock felt strangled, his toes curled while one hand clawed at his sheets and the other clawed at his chest.

_Please please please make it stop please -_

A loud thudding sound frightened Sherlock from his daze, his ears perking up to deduce the source. The sound wasn’t singular - it was followed in succession by other similar sounds. The pacing was consistent, and the exact depth and layering of the sound was familiar to Sherlock, too familiar, and he wondered if he was hallucinating.

He couldn’t really be so desperately off his course that he might resort to imagining something as mundane as Watson coming down the stairs from his bedroom for the mildest taste of comfort, could he?

But then the sounds stopped, only to be replaced by what Sherlock had already made out over the past week to be Watson’s patterns of movement: the opening and closing of the door, feet lightly treading over to the living room where the doctor would stand by the fire for a while before he lit his pipe and went over to the window to watch the street outside. A few minutes later, he would then go to the settee and make himself comfortable, reading the paper that Mrs Hudson would have brought up earlier in the day. These were all sounds that Sherlock memorised well and could distinctly make out from his bedroom. And they were all sounds he heard now.

 _Oh god._ Sherlock had never ever felt so much for something so meaningless to the point of insanity, but he was beginning to fear that the doctor had taken the best of him when he left.

How did he allow this to happen to himself? It was mortifying at best, suicidal at worst. He had never bothered with emotions of this sort. The last feeling of attachment he had felt was probably when he was still a child, and even then how do childish pursuits compare to this?

 _What happened?_ He asked himself, trying to retrace his steps and all the happenings from his first meeting with Watson, trying to recall every single detail of their interaction to find all the moments where he had slipped and allowed himself to succumb to this virus.

But in doing so, his mind only offered him memories of the colour of the doctor’s eyes, how they were equally piercing and calming depending on his mood, how deep and dark they were sometimes, how soft and gentle at other times. He could only remember Watson’s hair, and how strongly he had always felt the urge to run his fingers through the sandy strands, to hold the doctor’s head in his hands and caress the locks and determine once and for all how many parts blonde and brunette and silver his hair was. His mind lingered on the curves of Watson’s muscles, lean and powerful in his compact frame, how they tensed when he was nervous or angry and then relaxed with the grace of a wilting flower when he was calm and soft. He could only think of Watson's skin, sun-kissed with a golden glow and rough and callused in places that Sherlock would only want to lay over with reverent kisses, and in that instant he knew what it felt to be inexplicably jealous of the sun, to loathe the privileges a star could have that it might know every surface of Watson and kiss him so lavishly with its rays so that his skin forever bore its colour, a testament to that intimacy only the sun could offer.

Sherlock was pathetic, a complete mess, letting out a dry sob that ascended into a wail of pure agony as he fought with himself to suppress every ridiculous thought, every painful memory, the final deduction about his state that he has known for some time now but couldn't acknowledge...

“Sherlock?” a voice called out, followed by anxious footfalls down the hallway.

Sherlock froze, frightened by his own mind. The lengths he would go…

But then the door to his bedroom was wrenched open and there stood with utmost concern in his arresting blue eyes was Dr John Watson, in the flesh.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a low, soothing voice.

He was real. Sherlock knew he wasn’t hallucinating, because all the rapturous thoughts in his mind earlier were wiped clean at the sight of the doctor, replaced by the whirring wheels of his observing mind. He was real.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock barely managed.

“I live here.” Watson’s brow furrowed for a split second before his expression became professional again and he approached Sherlock. “How are you feeling? You made – you made a noise. I thought you were in trouble –”

“What do you mean you live here?”

Watson stared at him, incredulous at first, before his expression darkened. He immediately stood up and went towards Sherlock’s night stand, pulling open the drawer and rummaging through the contents.

“Where is it?” he asked gruffly.

“Where is what?”

“The rest of the drugs, Holmes. I should have known you had other hiding places –”

“What? I haven’t taken anything.”

Watson turned to him, staring intently. He appeared to be examining Sherlock’s eyes and face for tell-tale signs of usage, but Sherlock only felt more dazed with the other man looking straight at him at so close a proximity.

“I didn’t take anything,” he said reassuringly, bringing his voice down to a calm low.

“Your eyes are red,” Watson said accusatorily, though he appeared more composed.

“I – it’s just fatigue. I didn’t sleep well.”

Watson exhaled, looking away. He closed his eyes for a while before turning back to Sherlock.

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“You know?”

The doctor looked down at his feet, taking his time.

“I put you into bed. You know that. But I stayed back, just to make sure nothing amiss might occur. Couldn’t sleep, shouldn’t have. So I err – went outside for a bit to catch some warmth from the fire, but I could still hear you. Because I left your door open. Out of... worry. Finished doing whatever I was doing outside – had to keep myself entertained and awake – and then I came back in, but by then my shoulder was not being very cooperative, see, so I had to go upstairs and lie in bed. Just for a while, I told myself, but I ended up falling asleep. I apologise for not being a better caretaker, but I did managed to observe you sleep and I can say that it wasn't a sound sleep.” Watson chuckled mirthlessly.

“You could have slept here if you wanted,” Sherlock said softly, suddenly. He didn’t know what made him so bold, but now that he had said it, he couldn’t take it back. Watson’s eyes shot up to meet his.

“N – no, I wanted you to be comfortable. I couldn’t just slip in –”

“Couldn’t you?”

Watson’s jaw twitched and he cleared his throat.

“It would not be appropriate.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“Why not? Two friends, one a doctor and one a drug addict, sharing a bed for the night so the doctor could keep an eye on the drug addict. It would be presumptuous to assume it was inappropriate.”

Watson bristled, sniffing. He appeared to be trying to find words, to no avail.

“Well,” Sherlock cut in to diffuse the tension. “I’m glad you found ways to entertain yourself while I was asleep.”

“Right.” Watson cleared his throat again and Sherlock watched him curiously. It wasn’t a glass of water the doctor needed, and this motif was soon becoming a revealing sign of the doctor’s inner thoughts. How delightfully easy it was to read him sometimes. “About that,” Watson continued.

 _So this is it,_ thought Sherlock with a pang. Watson must have spent the earlier part of his evening thinking on how best to announce his departure. Sherlock’s chest clenched at the thought, of how the doctor had waited things out, allowed himself one more night in 221B to endure the effects of Sherlock’s irresponsibility, how he had transformed his duties as doctor into a role of Sherlock's obligatory caretaker and delayed his leaving by a day. It should have made Sherlock warm in the chest to think Watson had stayed to look after him, but all good things eventually come to an end. And this was an end that was as finite as death.

“You needn’t worry about the tenancy agreement,” Sherlock began shooting off. “I shall have a word with Mrs Hudson and you won’t have to answer to her about any of the possible complications.  You can simply take your things with you, and I’ll find someone to take care of the mess so you may leave quickly without having to –”

“ _Being a reprint from the reminiscences of Edward Burke, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department,”_ Watson suddenly interrupted in a booming voice.

Sherlock’s recognition of Watson’s words fluttered like a slow understanding blooming in his tight chest, and he looked up to see the doctor perched over him, hands holding onto a stack of papers which he held up to read.

Watson smiled down at him, shuffled through the papers until he found another suitable page.

“ _William Sherrinford — his limits._

  1. _Knowledge of Literature — Nil. But in Sensational Literature—Immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century._
  2. _Philosophy — Nil, and unabashedly so._
  3. _Astronomy — Nil. He isn’t necessarily unaware, but rather, he finds the idea of the earth rotating around the sun to be uninteresting and unimportant. According to him, if we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to him or to his work._
  4. _Politics — Feeble, and proudly so. He appears to sneer at it._
  5. _Botany — Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening. Thankfully, I engaged a bit in it while in the country._
  6. _Geology — Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistency in what part of London he had received them._
  7. _Chemistry — Profound._
  8. _Anatomy — Accurate, but unsystematic. This is where I offer expertise._
  9. _Plays the violin well. Composes occasionally, despite the fact he doesn’t seem the type to be provoked into creative frenzy._
  10. _Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman. Taught me to box – his specialty lies in strategy and thinking ahead. Brute force is rather unsophisticated for his tastes._
  11. _Has a good practical knowledge of British law, though he cares naught for them._
  12. _Friendship - that which he offers me knows no limits.”_



Watson finished and let his hands fall to his side, the papers dangling from his right hand. Sherlock could see the black of the typed letters glaring at him against the stark white.

“Where did you get that?” Sherlock asked softly.

“From your desk.”

Sherlock gaped at him.

“It’s how I kept myself entertained last night. Or rather, awake, but it took on a life of its own after a while.” Watson smiled.

“You read my manuscript,” Sherlock said uselessly, more for himself than for Watson.

“I did. I finished it.”

“You’re not leaving?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

Watson furrowed his brow at Sherlock. “Now why would you think that?”

Sherlock swallowed, looking away. A profound understanding of his silliness rushed up into his head, making him dizzy with humiliation.

“You – you said…”

“What did I say, Holmes?”

 _Did I imagine it all?_ But no, Sherlock distinctly remembered Watson’s declaration and how he had felt the air being knocked out of his chest as he had realised their meaning.

“You said you could not ignore it. My drug habit,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” Watson confirmed, still looking confused.

“I – you meant that you couldn’t live with it.”

“Yes,” Watson repeated, though this time he shifted his feet in discomfort.

“Which meant that you were leaving.”

“No.” Watson’s eyes shot up to meet Sherlock’s, burning with intense surety. “I wouldn’t leave just because of that.”

“But you said –”

“What I meant was that I’d do everything in my power to keep you away from those things. And I can’t do all that if I’m not here, can I?”

Sherlock froze, concentrating on the rhythm of his own breathing.

“You’re not leaving,” he muttered.

“No, I’m not. I never said I was.”

Sherlock was aware that he was staring openly, which was decidedly rude, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else.

“You’re going to stay…”

“Because I like it here. And I had only just unpacked. And you’re my friend. And it would make it easier for me to – to look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.”

“I never said you needed it. But it wouldn’t stop me anyway.”

Sherlock clenched his fists in his bedsheet, watching the earnest expression of purpose on Watson’s face.

“Holmes, you’re my friend. Hell, you’re my only friend. I’ve got nowhere else to go. Why would I leave?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Sherlock asked softly, though in truth he had not meant for the question to come out.

“Because,” Watson calmly held out the papers in his hand. “Because who would pass up the chance to live with the infamous Sherlock Holmes, author of the internationally renowned William Sherrinford detective stories?”

A moment of silence passed briefly before both men broke out into laughter, Sherlock clutching his side while Watson ducked his head to stifle his giggling.

_He lights up, he loosens, he uncoils, he lets go. His eyes water. There are lines on his face that come only in such instances. Instances that should be replicated more often. He sounds like a bell, like a fair, like a choir, like the wind._

It was utterly hopeless. If William Sherrinford was unaware of the sun, if he didn’t care about its gravity or brightness or how the earth revolved around it, it was only because Sherlock cared a little too much – only his sun stood at 67 inches in height and was sandy-haired and blue-eyed and laughed like a miracle.

“Sherlock Holmes, I don't understand you,” Watson finally said, voice still giddy with delight. “You really don’t know people. Not even me.”

“I do know you,” Sherlock interjected, a little defensively.

“You know where I’ve been after I’ve been out for a walk. You know my former profession based on my tan, of all things. You know my motivations and dissatisfactions just by looking at my face. But you didn’t know I wouldn’t ever leave this place.”

Sherlock smiled. “And I didn’t know you were prone to snooping through other people’s belongings.” He grabbed the papers from Watson and tucked them under his pillow.

“Only yours.”

“And why is that?”

Sherlock rose, still in his nightclothes, to rummage through his dresser for a change of clothes.

“I’ve become invested in you, my friend. That much should be clear.”

Sherlock didn’t ask why, why the doctor would be invested, why it should be clear. Instead he focussed on the robe he was slipping onto his shoulders now, the coolness and softness of the silk contrasting with the urgent burn in his chest.

“It’s remarkable,” Watson said.

“What is?”

“Your story. You rewrote the whole thing. I mean, the case was the same. The character was the same – Sherrinford. But you brought in Burke and made him the narrator. And you listened to what I said.”

Sherlock nodded. “Perhaps you’re to be credited for this as much as I am. I took what you said to mind. How you didn’t know if Sherrinford was fully human or not. I thought that could become all part of the experience.”

“And so you gave readers a character through whom we would see the enigmatic William Sherrinford.”

“The story becomes a tale about that encounter. The mystery revolves around Sherrinford. The case of whether or not he has a heart.”

Watson smiled, and it was a smile of wonder. One side of his mouth quirked up involuntarily, before the smile spread and lit up his whole face. Blue eyes stared with reverence and amazement.

“That’s perfect,” he said softly.

_The thing about the sun is that it sustains you. It keeps you alive. It is bright, luminous, hot. It has become the subject of many a song and poem, with artists touting its beauty and fierceness. But there’s a catch. Stare into it and you’ll become blind. And it is precisely this principle that applies so wholly to Watson and his smiles - that I know of its poetry and song, even write them myself, but if I stare into it any longer I might melt, dissolve, burn into a nothingness that floats longingly in the dust, decimated._

_Perhaps that was preferable. Dust, after all, glows only by light. And what a thing that would be, to float serenely in the wake of the sun, its light glinting off your edges and bringing illumination to every ashy, grey part of you._

“You’re not going to ask then?” Sherlock said, looking down, as he should.

“Ask what?”

“You know what I mean.”

Watson chuckled. “That Edward Burke reminds me of a certain someone?”

Sherlock remained silent, smoothing his hands over his robe.

“As in, a certain ex-army doctor who sits restless at home after being invalided with an injury, craving adventure and variety to his meaningless life? Who meets a man, a madman, in fact, who changes all this for the better with the simple act of companionship?” Watson continued.

“That’s not exactly how I would put it.”

“It’s how I would put it. Because it’s true. In fact, I would add that you saved my life.”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide.

“It’s true. Don’t ask, it’s true,” Watson said shortly.

Sherlock nodded.

“As you might come to save mine,” Sherlock said softly, acutely aware of the small puncture wounds in his arm where he had injected himself the night before with all the thoughtlessness and desperation of an addict.

“I will certainly endeavour to.”

“You’re not angry at me?” Sherlock whispered, the memories of his outburst coming back to him.

“How can I? I stand tall, I walk with dignity and surety now, all because you had the mind to take me out for a walk one fateful day. When I threw my cane away, I threw away something else. Some remnant of whatever it was that was plaguing me into suffering through hazy days barely remembered, mood-less nights barely tolerated. I mean it, Sherlock Holmes. As inexplicable and insane as it is, as unforeseeable and – and serendipitous – you saved my life.”

Their eyes met and it was as if they made a wordless promise then: neither would leave the other, because they had each other to save. From what, they weren’t sure. Sherlock certainly wasn’t aware of what the doctor might need saving from. But if there was any small service Sherlock might provide him, he would do it. He would cast aside any selfish desire, any motivation for personal fulfilment in favour of the continued preservation of John Watson, a man so strong and infallible that Sherlock saving him must surely pose more benefit for Sherlock than for Watson. Yet despite whatever the reasoning might be, Sherlock didn’t care. He would not be breaking this vow.

“Promise me, Holmes,” Watson said softly. “Promise me - the drugs – never again.”

Sherlock watched his friend closely, and willed every fibre of his strength into his promise, expressed in a small, earnest nod. Watson responded by smiling briefly, though his eyes burned with an unspoken emotion.

“So the book helped then,” Watson broke the silence. “With the writing.”

“Perhaps.”

“No, it did.” Watson was grinning now, and Sherlock thought if he had to read countless books he otherwise would not have even prodded with a stick, he would do it all in a day just to see the doctor smile like this again.

“It did,” Sherlock conceded. “It’s quite remarkable. If I could be half the author Austen was, it would be to your credit.”

“You’re already twice the man I am. How would that work?”

As he smiled back at his doctor, Sherlock Holmes came to accept that he was in love with John Watson. Unequivocally, irrevocably, completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you might have guessed, the name William Sherrinford is taken from BBC Sherlock's revelation in HLV that Sherlock's full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and Sherrinford comes from the accounts of ACD scholars that Doyle initially wanted to name Holmes 'Sherrinford'. Edward Burke comes from the combination of the names Edward Hardwicke and David Burke, both of whom played Watson in the Granada Holmes series. So yeah, multiple parallelism. 
> 
> Credit is due to Arthur Conan Doyle's "A Study in Scarlet" for some of the italicised passages from Sherlock's manuscript both in Chapter 6 and 8. Some of the passages were tweaked a little, some were directly quoted.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes Watson to a mysterious party, and they meet some enigmatic characters.

A writer’s life is marked by many events. But perhaps the most significant is the realisation of one’s muse.

And what a muse this was.

Sherlock’s muse was a river flowing fiercely, an ocean surging violently, flowers in the country during the spring swaying softly with the breeze, the sun shining over the silhouette of the city... all somehow encompassed in those small, finite spaces of blue framed by soft curves of eyelashes.

Yes, that was ultimately all his muse ultimately was: everything that John Watson manifested in, everything that manifested in John Watson, and John Watson himself.

What a muse he was.

Sherlock flounced about the flat over the next few days between his desk and his violin. He composed freely, music flowing out of him like the very river of Watson's soul he thought of as he brought the notes in his heart to life.

_John._

Sherlock decided that in his head at least, he could call his friend by his Christian name, with the promise that he will never do it out loud.

How could he? He daren’t say it, not with his aching voice and tainted mouth. Not even when he was alone. Even mouthing the name silently seemed a privilege he didn’t deserve. All he did was dwell on it in dreams and in his mind, and perhaps he deserved that much. He hadn’t even once thought of the Chinese box he had given John to keep in his room until they decided how they would dispose of it.

 _John._ It felt right. But how could it?

Sherlock decided it didn’t matter. Watson was not leaving, and that was all that he needed to know.

The doctor’s reaction to Sherlock’s rewritten story was of course the catalyst for Sherlock actually getting up on his two feet and functioning normally. Without it, Sherlock might have resigned to mope in his bed for days, or even lash out at Watson again and possibly drive him away once and for all.

Because the truth of the matter was it still hurt.

It still hurt to know so absolutely and immutably that Sherlock has given all of himself to a man for whom he would only ever be fellow-lodger, occasional patient, drug addict, madman, and perhaps when Sherlock was being especially deserving, friend and companion.

But if there was anyone Sherlock could set aside his selfish bitterness for, it would be John Watson.

And so he went over his manuscript over and over when he wasn’t otherwise occupied with the violin or with Watson, meticulously carving it into shape.

But today was not a work day. Watson would be arriving home from Bart’s in a while, and today of all days, Sherlock could show him yet another extravagant affair in the city.

He had received it in the mail that morning, Mrs Hudson sauntering in with the tea as she passed him the red envelope.

Inside the curiously fanciful envelope was an invitation. Sherlock had grinned upon seeing the name of the sender, wringing his hands with delight as he thought of breaking the news to Watson later in the evening.

Evening soon arrived, and Sherlock was already dressed for the occasion in a dark green suit he knew brought out the colour of his eyes and sat in stunning contrast to his pale skin, oh, did he know. 

Watson arrived home on time, as he always did. He no longer stalked in silence up to his room – their row was over, and as such the doctor would now come straight to the living room to greet Sherlock and spend the evening there with him until it was time for bed.

But today as he opened the door and stepped in, hands halfway through with removing his scarf, he immediately stopped short to gape at the sight of Sherlock in his suit.

Sherlock had to admit, he did intend on impressing the doctor with his appearance, but he didn’t think Watson would take to it quite so obviously.

“H – Holmes,” Watson said in surprise. “Is the Queen coming for tea?”

Sherlock smiled.

“Don’t bother removing your scarf, Watson. We’re off! I’m taking you out.”

Watson grinned. "One might think you were courting me."

Sherlock blushed, heart hammering in his chest. It was surprising how presumptuous Watson was willing to risk being sometimes, but perhaps that was part of his danger-seeking nature. “No – I - there are just many things more for you to see. Does it - It doesn’t matter.”

“My apologies, couldn’t resist the jest. You do look so gentlemanly, after all.” Watson's eyes twinkled with mischief.

Normally Watson would return from work slightly grumpy, until he settled in nicely in front of the fireplace with his tea. But tonight, Watson seemed well. Very well indeed.

Sherlock was on the verge of stammering stupidly before Watson saved him the embarrassment.

“Where are we going then, Holmes?” he asked.

“I want to keep it a surprise,” Sherlock replied. “After all, you’re the one who so craves these variations in daily life – it would spoil the novelty of a surprise party if I told you exactly where we were headed.”

“Oh, so it’s a party then?” Watson smiled mischievously. “I can only imagine the ladies who would be lining up just to get a word in with the stupendously dashing Sherlock Holmes. So that’s what the suit is for, isn’t it? Never thought you’d be interested.”

“Don’t be stupendous – I mean, stupid,” Sherlock blabbed, his face flushing from Watson’s insinuations. Ladies, of all people.

“I only try at wit, Holmes,” Watson reassured kindly. “Is what I’m wearing adequate?”

“Very adequate.”

Watson laughed, throwing his head back.

“But the women would surely be passing me over in favour of you,” he said.

Sherlock frowned.

“I wouldn’t pass you over.”

It had seemed so innocent a statement, a logical reply, but the way Watson cleared his throat seemed to indicate that it was inappropriate.

“I never thought you would. Although you did say you don’t have any friends.” The smile Watson gave him was anything but mirthless, in fact it was kind and understanding, but the memory of Sherlock’s words from the night Watson had discovered his habit came rushing back to him, and he wanted to scream at the doctor that none of it was true, that it was all said in a moment of weakness. He knew this issue was something he was going to have to constantly work to amend, possibly for the rest of his life.

But he only managed a slack-jawed huff of breath that diminished the doctor’s smile.

“Shall we, then?” Watson said quietly.

Sherlock nodded, checking the time on his pocketwatch absentmindedly before storming out of the flat. Sherlock was not a man of nervous ticks, but perhaps one was developing now with his pocketwatch.

He instructed Watson to hail a cab while he read through the invitation again to reaffirm the location and time, which elicited a curious glance from Watson at the sight of the lavish envelope.

“Holmes, are you sure I’m dressed appropriately?”

“I assure you, nobody will be paying attention to what you wear,” Sherlock replied, still engrossed with the invitation.

Watson snorted at his comment, which the doctor had seemed to take as offhanded and possibly, offensive.

“That’s not what I –” Sherlock quickly tried correcting himself, but Watson waved him off.

“Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from you.” He smirked.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in annoyance, but thankfully, Watson had managed at that time to catch the attention of a carriage.

The ride to the venue was tinged with nervous anticipation on Watson’s part, while Sherlock struggled with a tide of emotions ranging from irritation at Watson’s continued assumptions to mild regret, over the sheer fact that he had not been to a party for so long that he might not know how to act at one now. 

A wave of dread washed over him as he realised he would have to introduce the doctor around, that he would have to talk to the other guests, that he would have to show Watson that he was capable of socialising with other people.

The carriage slowed to a halt and Sherlock was finally shaken from his thoughts as he peered outside the window at a large estate looming overhead, situated in a splendid location surrounded by parks in one of London’s most affluent neighbourhoods. Bright lights illuminated the windows as two servants stood by the entrance like pillars.

“Good lord, Holmes, how did you come by such connections?” Watson asked, mouth agape.

Sherlock smirked.

“Sir Lewis Nellist, proprietor and businessman. Met him some time ago when I first came to London. Owes me a favour.”

Watson narrowed his eyes.

“Why would someone like him owe _you_ a favour?”

Sherlock chuckled. The carriage was now lined up behind a queue of other carriages as the passengers slowly got off one by one at the front steps, ushered by a server.

“He used to frequent the dens at Limehouse where I – where I had to acquire some of my product at one point. He was an avid gambler, but terrible at it. The only time I ever gambled in my life was that night – mostly because I needed money to purchase more… things for my Chinese box. It was too much risk for me to put in my own money – I had none. So I went into the gambling rooms in the den and singled him out. Rich but desperate, trusting but talentless. After the second round I pulled him aside and told him he actually had a good hand – he just didn’t know how to use it. I myself don’t play with cards, but I knew exactly how to count them and whether the other men were bluffing or not. He let me play for him, and his companions let him let me – I figured he must have been a man of immense influence for them to allow that. And I won. We split the prize. He invites me to these parties every now and then as a continuation of our friendship but this is the only time I’ve ever been to one.”

Watson had been nodding along, politely listening with an impressed expression on his face.

“If I knew you would be a benefit to have around in a gambling hall I would bring you out with me more often,” Watson murmured. 

“How could you not have known?” Sherlock asked in a petulant voice.

The doctor laughed and leaned in.

“Holmes, I don’t gamble. I never will. I was only playing a fool.”

“Ah.” Something about the determined way Watson had insisted he would never gamble piqued Sherlock’s curiosity. He filed the information away for later musing.

It was finally their turn to dismount. Sherlock paid the driver and rushed to Watson’s side.

“Don’t be nervous,” Sherlock said, though the words were meant more for himself as he took in the massive façade of the mansion before him.

“I have been to _some_ parties, Holmes. I’m not all that much of a country boy,” Watson murmured.

An usher skipped down the front steps and smiled brightly at them.

“Mr Holmes! Sir Lewis has instructed me to personally usher you to the smoking room.” The man turned to Watson and nodded in acknowledgment. “And your guest is…?”

“This is my _friend_ Dr John Watson,” Sherlock said pointedly, chancing a glance at Watson to see his reaction, though the man didn’t seem to register what had happened.

_I’ll have to try harder then._

The usher led them inside, and the house was truly a spectacle in luxury. Sir Nellist was an unashamedly extravagant man, and it showed. His hallways were lined with decorative relics from far-off places, juxtaposed garishly with the flamboyant wallpaper. The guests themselves were equally as embellished, with the women dressed in elegant, sweeping gowns and the men already red-faced with wine and brandy. It was all incredibly indulgent.

They were led right to the ballroom where Sherlock immediately made out Sir Lewis.

“Holmes, my man!” the jovial man said boisterously as he broke off from his circle of conversation to approach Sherlock and Watson.

He was an older man of about 60 years of age, but he didn’t carry that age in his mannerisms. In all his ways he was certainly excitable, and his frivolous nature was only made more apparent by his head of rigidly curled hair and his eccentric moustache, curled finely at the ends, twitching suitably every time he grinned – which was often.

“I have not seen you in months!” he announced, holding out a hand for a shake.

Sherlock reached out and returned Sir Lewis’ strong grip, smiling.

“Thank you for the invitation, Sir Lewis.”

“You’ve been avoiding me!” Sir Lewis accused. He then turned to Watson. “And who is this gentleman?”

Sherlock grasped his opportunity.

“This is my _friend,_ Dr John Watson,” he repeated.

“Glad to make your acquaintance. Your home is spectacular,” Watson had said without so much as a glance Sherlock’s way, let alone an outright acknowledgment of the fact that despite his words, Sherlock does in fact, consider him to be a friend. 

_Fine. I’ll just have to find another way._

“Are you still writing then?” Sir Lewis asked Sherlock.

“I am. In fact, I’ve finished my first manuscript.”

“Finally!” Sir Lewis laughed and exchanged a knowing look with Watson, which annoyed Sherlock. “When you get that thing published, you let me know. I’ll send a copy to every one of my friends and you’ll become the most famous author in all of England overnight.”

“I would appreciate that. I should say that Dr Watson helped me immensely in the writing of this manuscript. Without him, I might not have finished it at all.”

A jolt of delight ran up Sherlock’s spine as he caught sight of the doctor smiling sheepishly.

“I have to confess, Holmes, I planned the evening’s proceedings with you in mind,” Sir Lewis said.

“Oh?”

“I knew you were writing, no doubt something charmingly garish and morbid, and I knew how much you liked those macabre little stories, and I myself have been delving quite deeply into the – ah – shall we say, spiritual realm.”

“I’m sorry – what’s going on tonight?” Watson asked curiously, invoking a delighted giggle from Sir Lewis.

“He didn’t tell you, did he? Just roped you along for the ride. He would do that. But I assure you, Dr Watson, you will find it most mesmerising.”

“What do you mean when you talk of the spiritual realm?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Watson’s raised eyebrow.

Sir Lewis chuckled with glee at the opportunity for him to story the two men.

“So this fellow I often play cards with comes back from a tour of Brazil one day and tells us these frightful stories of the tribes there and the kinds of rituals they practice – shamans and witchdoctors and the like.” Sir Lewis then dropped his voice to a scandalous whisper and breathes, “Even _cannibalism_.”

Watson smiled with amusement and exchanged a look with Sherlock.

“So I ask him what the point is of telling us all these deliciously gruesome tales, and he starts telling me that after what he experienced, he was now inclined to believe in the validity of the supernatural.”

Watson appeared to stifle his laugh with a cough, looking away as he pounded his chest with his fist. Sherlock suppressed the urge to react similarly, and instead egged Sir Lewis on with an interested nod.

“Tell me gentlemen, have you heard of what they call spiritualism? They developed the idea over in the New World but in England it has gained some traction, especially after the adventures travels of people such as my friend,” Sir Lewis continued.

“I know of it, vaguely,” Watson answered, to Sherlock’s surprise.

Catching the bemused looks of the other two men, Watson elaborated:

“When I was in Afghanistan there was a chap who swore that his wife could speak to spirits. Said it comforts him every day – the knowledge that if he died, he’d still be able to communicate with her. And in truth, it might have comforted the rest of us as well.”

Sir Lewis gasped.

“Holmes, you didn’t say your guest was a war hero!”

“I’m not a hero, Sir Lewis. I was only doing my duty in serving our country,” Watson said with a small smile, and Sherlock’s chest welled up with such ferocity he might have burst open then and there and splattered himself all over Sir Lewis’ ogling face.

“Oh, this is going to be a fabulous night!” Sir Lewis exclaimed, just as a server came and tapped him meekly on the shoulder.

“Sir, your wife is looking for you.”

Sir Lewis groaned and rolled his eyes dramatically, waving the server off.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, _duty_ calls.” He turned with an audible swish but before marching off, he winked at the doctor and for all intents and purposes, purred: “It was a pleasure.”

Sherlock could have thrown up if he had eaten anything in the day, but any dry retching noise he would have made as a substitute would be unarguably offensive, and so he suppressed the desire to do so.

“Sir Lewis is quite the character,” Watson murmured.

“Yes, he seems very taken with you.”

Watson laughed. “Is there anything he isn’t taken by?”

“You don’t believe it then – spiritualism?”

The doctor sighed and gave Sherlock a look that was almost exasperated.

“I can tell you that I wanted to believe in it, very much, when I was lying in the trenches choking on dust. But how can something be truly real, when it’s only real at necessary times?” he said.

“I don’t believe in spirits,” Sherlock said flatly.

“And what about God?”

Sherlock shook his head indifferently, watching as the crowd in the ballroom continued to grow. But unlike the balls in the country, nobody was dancing. The idea of sophisticated city gatherings was to socialise. The thought made Sherlock shudder.

“I believe in spirits, to some effect. But to communicate with them, I’m not so sure,” Watson said.

The buzzing of the chatter had grown to the point that it was becoming difficult to talk, and Sherlock began to wonder if the entirety of the party was going to proceed as such. He was certainly expecting more, and it was the only reason he had bothered to bring Watson out with him tonight. He couldn’t have this party only confirm Watson’s suspicions that he did not belong in this society.

But then again, Sir Lewis never fails to disappoint.

Sherlock caught sight of him wading to the middle of the ballroom, waving his arms in an attempt to catch everyone’s attention. He clapped his hands and the sharp sound cut through the muffled chatter.

“Ladies and gentlemen, eyes one me, please! Your attention, my friends - there can't be anything more important than your host!” The crowd laughed affectionately, and Sherlock mused at how many friends and admirers Sir Lewis had.

“My friends,” Sir Lewis continued. “Our guest of honour has arrived. It is my honour and delight to present… The Woman!” he finished dramatically.

Watson shot Sherlock a confused look, and Sherlock responded with a knowing smile.

_This is it._

A flock of servants emerged hoisting up a round table with difficulty, and a few more trailed behind with matching chairs. They arranged the furniture in the middle of the room and quickly dispersed, and from the shadows a woman emerged.

She was objectively, a sight to behold. Her cheekbones were sharp, her entire face chiselled with a severity that was not unattractive. Her solemn air about her carried a misplaced quality of sensuality as she all but glided to the table, her flowing, glittering black dress a sharp contrast to the girlish pink and purple skirts of the other women.

“Come now, everyone. Around the table!” Sir Lewis exclaimed. “We need eight volunteers.”

“Come, Watson!” Sherlock whispered urgently, quickly striding ahead. This was all the adventure the doctor was ever going to need for some time. Watson followed after him as predicted, sitting down next to Sherlock, who intentionally chose the seat directly across from The Woman.

Another six guests flocked to their seats, including Sir Lewis. The remaining guests gathered around the table, though they made enough space that it was not at all crowded.

Servers emerged to place eight candles on the table, promptly lighting them. The glow cast an eerie light on The Woman’s face, who in that moment, smiled darkly at Sherlock.

His breath hitched and he turned to see Watson also watching The Woman with his eyes narrowed. She looked away.

The lights in the room were dimmed, and with a pensive look around the table, The Woman began to speak.

Her voice was deep and calm, but something about the careful way she spoke unnerved Sherlock.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remove your jewellery and gloves. Leave the gloves on the floor, and place your jewellery in the centre of the table.” She watched the guests expectantly as they did as they were told.

In the new light, Sherlock found that she looked older than she probably was. It was likely she intended for this effect, for her features to seem more austere and her eyes darker than they really were. In all likelihood, she was probably only about his age.

She then raised her hands, palms facing outwards, and then placed them down on the black marble table parallel to her shoulders, with her fingers spread wide. Everyone followed her lead.

“Join your hands,” she instructed in a low voice, and everyone shifted so that their last fingers were touching those of the people on either side of them.

“I now ask for your patience,” she said. “Throughout the course of this night there will arise the temptation to either leave or to disbelieve. These are all the ways in which the human mind will seek to ignore the truths being brought to the forefront. I ask that you resist these urges. Allow your imaginations to float in the darkness of your minds, and listen to my voice as I release from the confines of time the spirits of old. Allow yourself the liberation from your fears and embrace the spirits as I call them forth from the ages of the past, as I speak to the voices of the dead,” she whispered darkly. A low hum began to build in her throat as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and her breathing became ragged.

Sir Lewis was determinedly squeezing his eyes shut. Most of the guests were eyeing each other with trepidation, while one or two had their eyes closed serenely. Sherlock decided to close his.

“Spirits, spirits, come, come,” The Woman murmured, rolling her neck. “Come to me…”

Suddenly she gasped loudly as her neck snapped back and her palms tensed against the surface of the table. Some of the audience as well as the participants screamed shortly at this sight, causing Sherlock to open his eyes.

The Woman was now hunched against the table, breathing heavily. A low voice emerged from her, completely unlike her natural one, guttural with the effort her body was putting up to fight against the spasms that were attacking her.

“Who has summoned me?” she said in that voice that wasn’t hers. “I speak for the dead of the past, and for the dead of the future. I speak for all the dead and for all that is death.”

She groaned loudly again and began squirming in her chair, her head dropping forwards and snapping backwards at intervals as she choked against some unseen force.

“Holmes,” Watson breathed nervously beside him.

But Sherlock was too transfixed with the sight before him, more so because The Woman began babbling, speaking in tongues as she rushed through what appeared to be some kind of ancient recitation.

“Theatrical,” Sherlock whispered.

The Woman’s eyes suddenly shot up and bored straight into Sherlock’s, sending a chill running down his spine. Slowly she raised one hand from the table and placed one finger over pursed lips.

“Shh,” she said, and suddenly all the lights went out, including the candles.

The guests screamed again, but Sherlock held his place. On his left side he could feel Watson edge closer, until the last two fingers of Watson’s right hand were positively clutching onto his.

Sherlock smiled, inexplicably amused. If this was what it would take to get Watson to hold his hand, perhaps an occasional encounter with spirits and ghosts wasn’t such a bad idea.

The lights returned in a matter of seconds, but their ordeal wasn’t over. The surface of the marble table suddenly cracked, splitting into what looked like a system of rivers meandering over the cold black stone.

“Holmes!” Watson whispered more urgently, but Sherlock kept his eyes trained on The Woman, who was now cackling as she spewed out a series of insults aimed at the poor gentleman three seats to Sherlock’s right. As she droned on, Sherlock saw from the corner of his eyes Watson turn to glare urgently at him, imploring him for reassurance.

“You,” The Woman suddenly said, turning sharply to look at Watson, her eyes deranged and mouth contorted in a devious smirk. Sherlock felt Watson’s grip seize against his hand tensely. After a beat or two of this frightened silence, she suddenly said in a peculiar voice: “John Hamish Watson, if you're looking for baby names.”

Watson’s jaw fell.

With a loud gasp she threw her head back for the final time that night, and then fell forward onto the table with an exhale that sounded as if all the wind had been knocked out from her.

The audience was completely silent for the next few moments, the séance participants still seated rigidly. And then she slowly began to sit up with a long groan, one hand clutching at her temple as if she was having a migraine. The tension was almost tangible.

The Woman then looked at Sir Lewis with glassy eyes and in a voice as casual as it could possibly have been, murmured, “Water, please.”

The crowd broke out into an uproarious applause as Sir Lewis stood to help The Woman up. She leaned against him and smiled with appreciation at the crowd’s response while he took her bows for her.

Sherlock watched all this with untold amusement, but Watson had immediately stood. Without a word, he turned and marched off to a corner of the ballroom not populated with other guests. 

Sherlock quickly rose to follow him, but not before he caught sight of The Woman watching them intently.

“Watson,” Sherlock called out. “A thrill, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah it was,” Watson breathed. He had a glass of brandy in his hand that he took from the table of alcohol before him, taking a big gulp out of it. “What in heaven’s name was that?” he said in a choked voice.

“I believe that was brandy.” Sherlock reached out and took the glass from Watson’s hand so that he could savour the liquor for himself.

Watson glared at him.

“You brought me to a séance,” he said accusingly.

“Yes, I did. Did you enjoy it?”

“I – it was _frightening_ , Holmes.”

Sherlock laughed.

“You’ve fought in a war and _that_ scared you?”

“She addressed me directly, Holmes. She knew my name.”

“That could have been well arranged beforehand.”

Watson stared blankly at him.

“Wait – you mean to say you don’t believe any of that was real?”

“Of course not!” Sherlock said, sounding offended. “You don’t mean to say that you do?”

“The table cracked!”

“Could have been staged, could have been planned.”

“Good lord, Holmes, why would anyone go to that trouble?”

“Because Sir Lewis likes a good party and he likes to keep his guests coming back.” Sherlock smirked at Watson, pleased to see that the other man had slowly released the stiffness in his tense shoulders.

“Sir Lewis could have told her your name before this. And the man she was addressing before you – that was Major Hardwick – one of Sir Lewis’ old gambling friends. I suspected as much when she singled him out – that Sir Lewis was acting out his vendetta against him by having The Woman scare him to his wits’ end,” Sherlock continued.

Watson nodded thoughtfully, but he still looked disturbed.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said.

“And what is that?”

Watson looked truly perturbed as he glanced up to meet Sherlock's gaze, and his voice was heavy was he asked,

“She didn't just know my name, Holmes. She knew my -”

“Hello, gentlemen,” a velvety voice said from behind Sherlock, interrupting Watson.

Sherlock turned to see The Woman standing with her hands clasped in front of her, smiling knowingly as if she had heard their entire conversation.

“Sir Lewis tells me that you’re both old friends of his,” she said.

“Inaccurate,” Sherlock simply replied.

She held out a hand to him.

“The name’s Irene Adler,” she said.

Sherlock raised a brow.

“Is it customary for people like you to reveal their true names? Does it not diminish the dramatics?” he asked.

“People like me?” she echoed mockingly, her hand still outstretched.

To make up for Sherlock’s inaction, Watson stepped forward and held her hand in his, raising it to his lips for a quick kiss.

“Enchante,” she said, grinning at him.

“Pleasure,” he murmured, smiling briefly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It was an impressive performance,” he rattled off, determined for Watson's eyes to trail back to him. “What was your background before this – theatre?”

She laughed, and it was a tinkling, high-pitched laugh that was filled with genuine amusement, as if Sherlock had said the funniest thing in the world.

“Do you fancy yourself as some kind of detective, Sherlock Holmes?” she asked.

Watson actually laughed - a bright, surprised, and delightful sound - at her comment, causing Sherlock to grip the glass of brandy with an unnatural forcefulness.

“Why are you so determined to believe I’m a fraud?” she asked.

“When you have eliminated the _impossible_ , whatever remains, however _improbable_ ,” Sherlock stressed sarcastically, “must be the truth.”

“Oh dear,” Irene Adler said, her eyes widening dramatically. “He really is some kind of detective, isn’t he?” She had turned to address Watson, the amusement apparent in her expression.

Watson had smiled back at her briefly before launching into a tirade.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know. Pretend that you can see and hear things that aren’t there just to get a scare out of people and make a name for yourself," he said.

“Is that what you think I do, then?” she asked.

“It _is_ what you do,” Watson insisted.

“That’s what you want to believe, because the alternative frightens you.”

“Everything you did just now could be achieved with some clever trickery, theatrics, and cheating,” Sherlock said, drawing his hackles.

Irene Adler did not seem fazed at all. She only stared him down like he was a small child and she was his condescending schoolteacher.

“Explain this, then.” She gestured to Watson standing by Sherlock’s side, as if he were an exhibit of her psychic prowess.

“What do you mean?” Watson asked defensively.

“Why you’re scared.” She smiled at Watson, revealing gleaming white teeth. Watson drew back, exhaling as if what she said had hit him physically. 

“You knew his name because I told it to Sir Lewis and he told it to you,” Sherlock said exasperatedly. It was unbelievable, really, that she had chosen to approach them just to gloat at them when she should know by now that Sherlock wouldn’t be fooled by these kinds of things.

But Irene Adler simply rolled her eyes at the two men the way governesses often do with tiresome children.

“I’m rather hurt that you would think I believe you and Dr Watson to be so dull. I’m not staking my credibility on the fact that I knew your names.” She narrowed her eyes and spoke bitingly. “In fact, I have no reason to come talk to you gentlemen at all, not when everyone else so ardently believes in the earlier spectacle. Now, I speak to you with absolute honesty because I feel I have to, and because I feel that you of all people might understand. I don’t just know of you, _I know you._ I know how the both of you are like, and I reckon that I even understand whatever this is,” Irene pointed an accusing finger between Sherlock and Watson, “better than you do yourselves.”

Sherlock froze, feeling her gaze tear right through him.

“What are you talking about?” Watson demanded.

Irene Adler laughed again, smiling charmingly at Watson.

“You know what I would like?” she said. “I would like to go to Brazil and actually learn from the elders. Have them teach me a thing or two about reincarnation.”

“Reincarnation?” Watson repeated.

“Yes, yes. We don’t believe in that so much here in Britain, but then again, we tend to pick and choose what things we believe in. But in some places and practices of spiritualism, they believe that the afterlife isn’t really an afterlife at all, it’s just another life. And I think you men might find that interesting.” She smiled knowingly, and Sherlock hadn’t been so confused in his entire life.

“You’re a fraud,” he spat.

“I am what I say I am. You have no reason to doubt me except for your own fears. I sensed something about the two of you. You noticed that during the séance, didn’t you?” she continued.

When the men didn’t reply, she hammered on.

“I’ll be truthful – sometimes these dramatics are not all what they seem. Sometimes the intensity of a psychic realisation doesn’t necessitate the cracking of marble or the blowing out of candles. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sir Lewis had orchestrated all that behind my back, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were natural either. Stranger things have happened. But all that aside – forget about the séance entirely, my friends. Focus on what I say to you now. There’s something about the two of you, some intangible connection with that realm or plane un-accessible by all but those like me who possess the gift.”

Sherlock choked on Watson’s brandy while the doctor opted for a more direct act of bursting out in laughter.

Irene Adler sniffed and fixed them with an amused stare.

“Dr Watson, when I singled you out, I said something to you. Do you remember what it was?”

Watson stopped laughing, transfixed as he was with that phrase.

“A shot in the dark,” Sherlock declared. “Anything you might have known about him would have been painfully clear to you from his earlier conversation with Sir Lewis.” Sherlock was rather offended that Irene Adler thought she could deduce Watson the way he did. He had to admit, it was rather threatening.

“And his middle name?” she challenged.

“A fanciful addition for dramatic effect - there are ways you might have obtained that information outside of Sir Lewis. Perhaps you knew I would have been a guest - he would have made this known to you as his guest of honour to help you prepare for your spectacle. And by simply observing my apartment you would have come to know of Dr John Watson, after which you could have found records of his full name,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“No,” she simply said. “Ask the doctor, he knows.”

Watson only shrugged, sincere in his confusion, when Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“Nothing else you said was relevant,” Sherlock said, bristling. 

“I wasn’t trying to pretend I knew something about him that was secret and hidden. As you said, it would not be difficult to figure out his full name before tonight. Why complicate your acceptance of my sincerity and confuse my credibility in your eyes?” she reasoned.

“So if you trying to pretend you knew something, what were you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

Irene Adler grinned.

“I was simply repeating something from my visions of the night. It had wandered into my mind... and it most curious, don't you think? I thought it might be interesting enough to bring up." She eyed the men with a hungry amusement, biding her time as she watched their expressions fluctuate from confusion to epiphany and back to being utterly lost. She smoothed out her skirt and smiled with contrived coyness, teasing them, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” she said in a dramatic parody of Sherlock's words. Perhaps she really had dabbled in theatre. With a wink, she turned and left the two men standing in that corner of the room, completely flabbergasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The seance scene and the character of Sir Lewis Nellist were inspired by my favourite onscreen depiction of Victorian times, Penny Dreadful. The specific episode is the second one from season one. Sir Lewis Nellist is modelled after Ferdinand Lyle, who is the ultimate boss. The information alluded to regarding Victorian spiritualism in this chapter is surface at best, and if you're interested in that sort of thing I encourage you to research it - it's incredibly interesting, and Arthur Conan Doyle himself was a spiritualist! Which really, is why I had to have this whole chapter on it. This serves as what I hope will be a sufficient introduction into the concept of reincarnation within this series. Next chapter is gonna be big. Stay tuned ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What we've all been waiting for, essentially ;)

“That was the strangest night of my life, and I fought in Afghanistan,” Watson concluded with humour as he stepped into the living room of 221B, Sherlock closely following behind.

It had been a long night, even though Sherlock and Watson had left the party soon after their confrontation with The Woman.

Irene Adler was certainly the most fascinating woman Sherlock had ever met in his life. And despite his lack of patience for her craft, he had found that the woman herself was most serious about her insinuations.

Sherlock decided that he would read up on it, in light of the things Irene Adler had said. “ _The afterlife isn’t really an afterlife at all, it’s just another life. And I think you men might find that interesting.”_

“Holmes?” Watson called, and Sherlock realised he had been staring blankly into the fireplace and ignoring Watson.

“I agree,” Sherlock suddenly said. “Strangest night of my life.”

“Right. I was actually asking if you’d be heading off to bed now.”

Sherlock looked up at his companion, whose face betrayed an inner turmoil that had been bothering him ever since the séance.

“I think it would be best if I refrained from attempting to surprise you from now on,” Sherlock mused.

Watson’s smile was an exhausted one.

“Perhaps that would be best,” he said. “But it was supremely entertaining, albeit a little frightening… I – I did actually enjoy myself.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise as he shifted awkwardly on his feet.

“Ah. Any time,” he murmured.

Watson nodded appreciatively. He was about to turn away before he suddenly asked,

“What do you make of her? The Woman?”

Sherlock tensed his shoulders.

“There’s a possibility I might have underestimated her.”

A small smile crept onto Watson’s face as he stared at Sherlock.

“You like her,” Watson said pointedly.

The jolt of surprise that seized Sherlock could have probably made him stumble if we he weren’t so lucid.

“What?” he asked in horror.

“You – you like her. I can tell.” Watson was grinning now. “She’s unlike the others.”

“What others?!”

“Other women. I know you, Holmes. You always need the unexpected and even strange to pique your interest, and she was certainly both of those things.”

“Why would you assume there are other women?” Sherlock was trying very hard to suppress the horror in his voice, but Watson's cheeky facial expressions were cruelly provoking him. 

“There have to be,” Watson said almost incredulously, as if it was a matter of fact. “But certainly none that could hold your attention. Miss Adler, however…”

“Miss Adler is a _psychic_ ,” Sherlock emphasised the word as if his plain disgust for the occupation would shake Watson to his senses.

“A very good one.”

“Did we not establish that she was fraud?”

“Perhaps you did, Holmes. But I’m not so convinced myself.”

Sherlock marvelled at Watson’s obtuseness, in fact, marvelled at himself for possibly being capable of falling in love with someone as thick as Watson.

“ _Why?_ ” Sherlock asked, as if he had just been betrayed.

“I don’t know, Holmes. I don’t know. There was something about her.”

“Good lord, Watson, have you lost your mind? Was it the brandy?”

“I’m perfectly sane, thank you. I’m telling you, Holmes, she knew _something_. I don’t know what exactly, but the way she looked at me, the things she said, it was as if… it was as if she was looking right into my soul.”

Sherlock held down the urge to roll his eyes, breathing slowly to calm himself. Watson was a hopeless romantic in all senses of the word, that even his perception of something as obviously ridiculous as Irene Adler’s so-called psychic powers could not escape the claws of overstretched fantasy.

“She was special, Holmes,” Watson insisted.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with urgency as he rounded on Watson.

“Not to me, she wasn’t,” he snarled.

Watson seemed taken aback, the surprise on his face overlaid with - inexplicably - something that appeared a lot to be like relief.

“I wonder, Holmes, if a woman like that could not garner your affections, who can?” he asked.

Sherlock’s chest sank like an anchor crashing into the abyss of his stomach. A lump formed in his throat as he comprehended Watson’s complete inability to understand that it wasn’t Irene Adler who was the problem.

“Nobody,” Sherlock simply said. “That’s the point.”

“Oh?”

“All emotion is abhorrent to me,” Sherlock said with a tone of finality, his eyes flickering upwards to gaze at Watson for a moment.

“Ah,” the other man breathed out, as if everything was suddenly clicking into place. Sherlock dreaded the conclusions that Watson was surely drawing up in his mind now, but decided that he’d rather have this than to have Watson further interrogate him about women anymore.

With an awkward nod Watson drew away, flittering about the room fussily as he attempted to diffuse the tense atmosphere. Sherlock simply slouched into his armchair and lit his pipe.

“I must be off to bed now,” Watson announced after a while. “I take it you won’t be sleeping soon?”

Sherlock didn’t look up at him. He simply nodded and let the smoke from his pipe curl up in ambiguous shapes, the cloud forming over his head distracting him from the figurative one inside his mind.

* * *

 

Sherlock was crying.

He was curled up on the settee of his living room clutching Watson’s copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ in front of him, reading the last chapter over and over as Austen stitched the lives of all her characters together, and everything was whole and perfect.

He wasn’t sure what had elicited such a strong emotional response from him – there was nothing decidedly drastic about the book, and it had certainly ended on a happy note. But he was sad still, and unthinkably touched – sad because the book had ended now, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever find himself an experience identical to this one that had brought such meaning to him, and touched because he saw himself in so many of these characters and the way that they had flourished ultimately, and that had to make him wonder if life could ever imitate art sometimes.  

His thoughts were unceremoniously interrupted by a loud cough from the doorway, and Sherlock’s head snapped up, face still streaked with hot tears, to see Watson standing in his robe looking sympathetic.

“Watson,” Sherlock blurted out, quickly releasing himself from his foetal position, wiping frantically at his face with the sleeve of his robe.

“Holmes,” Watson approached slowly, his voice unbearably soft. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. What are you doing awake?” Sherlock snapped, hoping that his return to his callous behaviour would cancel out the image Watson had experienced earlier of Sherlock crying.

Watson stared at him with a tenderness on his face filled with warmth and concern, and Sherlock couldn’t help but swallow nervously. A small smile broke out across Watson’s face as he stooped to sit next to Sherlock.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said nonchalantly. “And you’re awake because you were finishing the book.”

Sherlock quickly put the book behind him as if he could now pretend that wasn’t exactly what he was doing.

“It’s late,” Sherlock mumbled. “We should be getting some sleep.”

“I’m not tired anymore,” Watson said resolutely, still staring at Sherlock. Suddenly, he reached out and wiped at a wet spot on Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock froze and felt his world overturn itself. His heart raced like a locomotive charging off the rails as his face flushed bright scarlet, the place where Watson’s thumb had brushed against his skin burning as if a hot brand had been pressed into him.

Watson, for unfathomable reasons, began to giggle.

Sherlock fixed him with a wilting look, daring him to continue laughing at his expense.

“I – I’m sorry,” Watson said, calming himself into a more neutral tone. “It’s just – earlier, you – Christ, Holmes.” Watson began smiling again, the affection in his eyes almost blinding.

“What?” Sherlock asked, feigning annoyance.

“Earlier, you said all emotion was abhorrent to you.”

Sherlock’s breathing increased its pace as he wriggled uncomfortably on the settee.

“They are,” he insisted.

“And yet, you cry after reading _Pride and Prejudice._ ”

“Do you have to rub it in?” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, annoyed that the walls he had been trying so hard to build as soon as Watson discovered him crying had now crashed uselessly around his feet and he was left completely exposed.

“No, no, we don’t have to talk about this,” Watson said in a light tone, in a way that made Sherlock want to crawl up to him and bury his head in Watson’s neck as the doctor’s melodious voice caressed his cheek soothingly.

The thought made Sherlock freeze and he was unable to respond adequately.

“I just – I was just wondering, because in truth - Holmes, you do confuse me so,” Watson continued.

When Sherlock made no attempt to reply, Watson droned on.

“You seem to give off this impression that you are some sort of machine, that you’re sculpted from ice, that your heart has been completely separated from your mind and that this is how you prefer to operate. But at the same time, I often catch you slipping. There are big moments like these, but they’re rare – more often it’s little slip-ups that clue me in to who you really are… but at the end of the day, I don’t really know, do I?”

“You said you know me for real,” Sherlock said softly. “When you were trying to get me to rewrite my manuscript you said –”

“It’s not the same. What I meant was - What I had been trying to tell you at that time was that I trusted you, and I knew you could do it. This is different. I don’t really know anything about – about your emotions.”

“Why do you need to know?” Sherlock whispered.

“Because – because you lied. You said all emotion was abhorrent to you.”

“And?”

“And it’s not. I want to know why you lie. You said the other day, when I found - found you in the living room passed out - you said that you had no friends.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He couldn’t believe that the issue was being brought up at this time, when he had just cried his eyes red over a silly book.

“You had lied then, too,” Watson said softly, and Sherlock’s head jerked up.

“I am your closest friend, your only friend, perhaps. There’s no use arguing it, Holmes. I may not know much but I know that much. And if it comforts you, you’re my closest friend too. And quite possibly the only person who really understands me, or who rather, understands me and still bothers sticking around. I try to be upfront with you. Perhaps there are many things I haven’t told you about my past, but I would like to think that if you asked, I would gladly divulge them. But you… I don’t know what it is you think will happen if you were just as upfront as I am willing to be. Why are you like this? What made you like this?” The question burned in Watson’s eyes as he stared intently at Sherlock.

“We wouldn’t have to have this tedious conversation if you hadn’t suffered me this stupid book,” Sherlock said shortly, looking away.

“Is that it, then? You find emotions and - and relationships… tedious?”

Sherlock frowned at Watson.

“What are your questions really about, Watson?” But Sherlock regretted his words as soon as he asked them.

“You said emotion was abhorrent to you, and yet we both know that’s not true. You lie constantly about what it is you really feel. And so…” It was Watson’s turn to look awkward now as he clenched his left hand. Sherlock could only be mildly thankful that the doctor’s hearing was mediocre enough that he would not be able to hear Sherlock’s heart beating like a maddening drum.

“And so?” Sherlock pried.

Watson inhaled deeply.

“And so what you said about Miss Adler must not be true, either," the doctor blurted. 

Sherlock felt as if a brick had just landed on his head. Unexpectedly, rage boiled up inside him and he launched to his feet, glaring daggers at Watson.

“What is it with you and women?” Sherlock snarled.

Watson raised his eyebrows, eyes widening in surprise.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he murmured in mild amusement.

“Why must everything revolve around your silly notions of romance and relationships and – and –”

“I’m curious, as a friend. That’s all,” Watson justified.

“I don’t ever ask you about your relationships.”

“That’s because I don’t put on an act of being adverse to them.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stormed away, prompting John to rise as well.

“Sherlock, you’re a human being. You must have experiences, or – or urges - a past you want to forget for some reason. Perhaps there was an old sweetheart, perhaps it was unrequited, perhaps it was heartbreak - whatever it is, you must feel more than you say you do.”

“For the love of God,” Sherlock muttered, staring out the window from where he would normally stand and play his Stradivarius. “Please, Watson, for the love of God, stop this madness.”

“Why?” Watson demanded, approaching him. “It’s not emotion that is abhorrent to you apparently, but admitting that you are emotional.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock simply said.

“As your friend, Holmes, I worry for you.”

“It is none of your business!”

“There must have been women in your life. Passing infatuations at least, if not love. Someone you felt for, something that went wrong. There’s no shame in that. I myself can tell you of my many unreturned affections. Am I being presumptuous? There have been women, haven’t there?”

Sherlock stood by the window, and a calmness overtook him which he didn’t expect. He decided then that he could never tolerate Watson’s inquiries for another day, even if they only cropped up every now and then. The only solution was to nip it in the bud and hope Watson gets the message, never to allow the topic to resurface again.

“The answer is yes,” Sherlock said, turning to face Watson as he watched an expression of hesitant acceptance flood over the doctor’s face. And it was that look that gave Sherlock cause to finish his sentence, “you are being presumptuous.”

Watson’s brow, previously slack with what seemed like an odd mixture of relief and disappointment, suddenly shot up as he struggled to understand Sherlock’s meaning. He started thinking aloud, which annoyed Sherlock.

“You’re a man,” Watson said, as if Sherlock wasn’t aware of the fact.

“So?” Sherlock replied pointedly, hoping that perhaps Watson was not as imperceptive as he had suddenly become the past day.

“How does a man like yourself go all these years without –” But Watson stopped himself short, frowning in contemplation. “Oh,” he suddenly said, and the expression on his face changed to one that was tactfully blank.

“Oh?” Sherlock echoed uselessly, feeling utterly dejected. There was no point keeping it a secret now, and Watson’s constant questions needed quelling.

“So… men then. Have there been men?” Watson asked slowly, eyes cast downward. He realised his own body language and promptly straightened to look Sherlock in the eyes. “Which is… fine, by the way. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock was barely breathing now, quickly staring down at his own feet as he stood as still as a withering tree. A rush of anger and sadness coursed through Sherlock and he could feel the intensity of it burning behind his eyes.

“Is it?” he breathed softly, eyes still trained on the floor. He was very sure that burning sensation behind his eyes was tears. Because it was not fine. It was not fine at all, because Sherlock had indeed felt before, but he had only ever felt for those he was apparently not supposed to feel for. He had worked at repressing that side of him so that daily life would be that much less excruciating, but lo and behold, he was not to be left in peace - because he has fallen in love, and it was with John Watson.

And now he was going to have to crack himself open for his friend and lay himself bare until Watson distinguished every little wrong thing about him and deserted him, leaving Sherlock split and broken and alone on the floor.

But Watson did no such thing. Instead he inched closer until he was nose to nose with Sherlock, and brought up a reassuring hand to Sherlock’s arm.

“Holmes,” he said hoarsely, drawing Sherlock to look at him. It was almost as if Watson’s eyes were as glassy as Sherlock’s. “You are human. You are flesh and blood – you have feelings. That’s all fine. Why are you so determined to be alone?” he asked.

Sherlock sighed into Watson’s touch, feeling as if all the weight of his self-hatred could transfer into Watson’s warm palm, as if the small man standing before him could absorb everything Sherlock hated about himself and take those things away, and Sherlock could be a brand new person, whole again without his imperfections. But this was his friend, not some disposable magical thing that would cure him overnight of his wrongs. This was John Watson, and he deserved better.

So Sherlock reached out his opposing hand to tug at John’s hand on his arm, to pull him away so that he would understand once and for all that Sherlock was absolutely determined to be alone, to not allow his distorted self affect anyone else anymore. But Watson seemed to interpret the action differently.

Instead of letting Sherlock pull his hand away, Watson curled his fingers to meet Sherlock’s touch, fingertips brushing against Sherlock’s softly. And then he grasped the writer’s hand fully, his warm, calloused fingers holding reassuringly onto Sherlock’s longer, brittle ones. Sherlock's hand fell from his arm, cradled softly against Watson's own palm.

Sherlock almost gasped, but when he looked up he saw there in Watson’s eyes some kind of recognition, an acknowledgment in fact, that not only did he understand how Sherlock felt – his self-hatred, his agonising daily dilemmas, his desire to hide - he felt the exact same thing it too.

 _This can’t be._ Sherlock was reeling, absolutely confounded by the depth of the message and complexity of emotion behind those eyes that had every colour of the sky for any time of day, and he risked a small exhale of breath, allowing his desire to coil up in the small space between him and Watson.

Watson did the unthinkable. He brought Sherlock’s hand up and closer to him and let it hover close to his lips, his hot breath against Sherlock’s cold skin sending shivers down Sherlock’s rigid spine.

Sherlock knew what Watson was going to do. Just as he had kissed Miss Adler that evening on the hand, he was going to do so to Sherlock now. Watson’s lips parted and the alarming nature of the idea shocked Sherlock into pulling his hand away. He backed away and stared wide-eyed at the doctor as Sherlock held his own hand up to his chest to calm his erratic heart.

Sherlock was certain he would have simply walked off and ended that charade right then and there if it weren’t for the stricken expression that flooded Watson’s face. The man looked absolutely horrified with himself, but worse still, his eyes had fallen dead as the vibrancy of the galaxy’s colours in them dimmed, as if his soul had been sucked out of him as Sherlock had pulled his hand away. And it was this absolute personification of heartbreak in Watson's face that forced Sherlock into action, and without a thought, he launched himself at the doctor, hands reaching out to cradle his sandy-haired head lovingly as mouth crashed onto mouth.

Watson made a startled noise, but he stood still and let Sherlock kiss him hungrily, his greedy hands roaming in Watson’s hair and holding his head as if it was the most fragile thing in the world.

There were many things in the world Sherlock could live with, but the expression on Watson’s face when Sherlock had pulled away had not been one of them. No matter what he would be required to do or sacrifice, Sherlock had vowed then when he saw the hurt in Watson’s eyes that he could never ever be the source of that kind of pain.

Watson suddenly moaned against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock would have been frightened that he had taken things too far, if it were not for the fact that Watson had slid his palms up Sherlock’s back possessively. One hand came to rest on Sherlock’s hip, strong and sure, while the other climbed up until it was in Sherlock’s hair, fingers tangling in Sherlock's curls gently, adoringly.

Sherlock had no skill in kissing. But Watson certainly must have had skill. And yet, the men did nothing more than press their lips and bodies so close together that they could barely breathe.

It was as if the sensuality of kissing meant nothing to them then, and it was only the desperate need to hold on to each other, to join with one another and never let go that took precedence.

Sherlock was surprised with himself – at how needy he was and how absolutely dependent he was on the closeness of this other man, that he couldn’t even think to kiss him properly now. It was only an ungraceful smashing of lips and pressing of bodies that ruled their confession to one another, this unsophisticated display of utter devotion being the only thing they were capable of at this moment.

And in truth, it was all fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit is due to this comic (http://thorinlock.tumblr.com/post/136613697463/patternofdefiance-tali-zora-deebzy) for my rewriting of the TAB "Greenhouse scene".


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is the longest wait for an update so far - took over a week, and though some don't see that as a lot, I made a promise to myself to update every few days :\ It was midterms period in uni though, and I couldn't get myself writing. I'm really sorry if anyone expected something to be posted sooner, and I hope this new chapter is enjoyable :)

The next few days of Sherlock’s life were dotted with incandescent brilliance, sparking a brightness so complete that Sherlock would have been happy to burn in that glow, if only because he was allowed the experience of a few days’ worth of pure light.

He and Watson did not talk about it. They did not muse on their feelings or discuss the kiss. They did not need to.

This is because the next few days were an outstretched blur of stolen kisses and fond stares and secret smiles and hands lingering more than they had any right too. And all these things spoke for themselves.

Sherlock awoke after the first morning since the kiss and found John Watson’s head tucked between his neck and shoulder. The image was almost painfully endearing, as Sherlock felt a jolt of emotion at how beautiful Watson was in his serenity and vulnerability. The doctor lay on his side with his right arm splayed across Sherlock’s chest, snoring softly into Sherlock’s neck.

If Sherlock had no intention of talking about anything, it was because he had no words, no words for the fireworks he had felt the night before, no words now for this swelling tide of silken waves caressing his entire body with love and affection and pure joy, pure gratitude that he had the fortune of waking up with this indescribable feeling - of waking up next to John Watson.

He reached out a tentative hand, trembling and stalling, hovering just above the fringe of hair at Watson’s forehead.

He was blonde. Sherlock knew this now. John Watson was blonde, and it was an excruciatingly lovely sandy, dirty blonde with tinges of brown and reflections of silver. His hair was wavy, not as coarse as Sherlock’s but not fine either. It was smooth to the touch.

_Excruciatingly lovely._

If Sherlock turned his head and exhaled, his breath would rush against Watson’s soft, golden eyelashes, which would flutter ever so slightly in the most exquisite way. Sherlock knew not to do that too much, for Watson was beautiful to him in a heartbreaking way. Every inch of his skin, every movement he made - it was all anguish to Sherlock, because his mind couldn't make sense of it - why he felt so much just by looking at him. 

_Excruciating. Lovely._

The doctor was not a young man. His face was marked, tanned, lined with wear. And Sherlock loved every wrinkle and pore and scar and blemish.

Watson’s lips were a curvaceous line, as if they were intricate motifs carved into a face of marble. Sherlock’s hand moved to drift above Watson’s lips now, his mind glazing back to the events of the night before.

* * *

They were kissing. They really were - it wasn't some ridiculous fantasy. Sherlock had lunged at Watson for a kiss and somehow the doctor had not pushed him away. Sherlock’s chest was swelling and he felt as if he were going to burst any moment with a roar of emotion, but Watson was holding him in place with his hands latched firmly onto Sherlock’s back.

Yet the initial force with which they had crashed into one another eventually sent Sherlock stumbling backward into his armchair, at which point Watson climbed onto his lap and pulled away.

The doctor’s eyes were dark, his chest heaving as he took Sherlock’s face in his hands and asked quietly,

“What was that?”

Sherlock simply shook his head, lips sealed and heart beating, staring up at Watson’s face so that he could memorise every detail of this moment.

“Do you often go around attacking unassuming people with kisses?” Watson asked, his expression still resolutely solemn.

“No,” Sherlock said in a protesting tone.

“Just me then?” Watson asked, one corner of his lips finally quirking up in a smile.

“Just you,” Sherlock breathed. He did not smile, because the matter was not amusing to him. It was of great urgency and seriousness. _Just you._

“Why?”

Sherlock’s brow twitched involuntarily, contorting in what must have been an expression of immense sadness, because just moments before Sherlock had nearly broken down as Watson stood interrogating him about his past, about his feelings. And Sherlock had been so agonised then precisely because of the answer to Watson's question now.  _Why indeed?_

Watson quickly ran his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheeks and hushed him soothingly.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. We needn’t talk about it,” Watson said.

Sherlock tried breathing from his nose to soothe his heartbeat. The doctor sensed his distress and laid a warm palm over his chest, his other hand still tenderly holding onto Sherlock’s cheek.

“You’re a thing of beauty,” Watson murmured.

Sherlock’s mind was reeling. This was all so foreign to him, so unimaginable and frightening. Not the kissing, no. The kissing was fine. The kissing was splendid. But Watson on top of him staring at him with an expression that was equal parts hungry desire and aching adoration while murmuring in that soft, hoarse voice that Sherlock was _beautiful_ was unthinkably terrifying.

“Th – thank you,” Sherlock managed.

Watson burst out laughing, throwing his head back as his eyes crinkled with glee, exposing his neck and jaw.

Sherlock had never thought of it until then, how much he wanted to run marathons with kisses along the neck of Watson’s jaw, all day, with just the other man lying pliant beneath him as Sherlock roamed his hands over Watson’s chest, feeling every heartbeat like it was his own measure of life.

 _One heartbeat, two, three, four, one-hundred, five-hundred…_ And with every increased beat it would be as if Sherlock was more and more alive.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Watson finally said, smiling softly at Sherlock and playing lightly with the curls behind Sherlock’s hear.

“Come to bed with me,” Sherlock suddenly blurted out, gazing up helplessly at the man who had so totally and single-handedly turned his life upside down.

Watson raised his brow as his jaw fell in a wordless gape.

“Not like that!” Sherlock quickly said, not just because he sensed the shock coming from Watson at his perceived lewd proposal, but also because he had truly not meant it that way. “It’s just that it’s late, and we’re eventually going to fall asleep, and we’re already in our night clothes, and I just want you to be in my bed. To sleep beside me. I want you by my side.”

Watson’s reply was to simply stand and hold his hand out to Sherlock, smiling quietly.

Sherlock placed his hand in Watson’s, and with one quick move, the doctor pulled Sherlock up so that they were standing nose to nose.

Sherlock was positive that Watson was going to kiss him again, and just as he let his eyes close and his lips part with anticipation, Watson had instead brought Sherlock’s hand up and planted his lips softly on it.

His mouth lingered, hot with lips slightly parted against the cold flesh of Sherlock’s palm. Watson let his lips graze Sherlock's skin as they roamed for a little, Watson’s bottom lip dragging along the skin and getting pulled down just enough to bare his lower row of teeth a little.

The sight was intoxicating and unexpectedly sensual. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he quickly rethought his earlier proposition for Watson to share his bed for the night.

But the doctor was already backing up, still holding Sherlock’s hands.

“Come on, then,” Watson said with a soft smile.

Sherlock followed him as if he was in a trance. He could not, and would not, take his eyes off Watson, as the man turned and pulled him along to the bedroom, as he glanced back frequently to smile at Sherlock, as he crossed the threshold into the Sherlock’s room and pulled him in for a searing kiss. 

This time, they did it properly.

Their lips met with just as much force and passion as before, but Watson quickly altered his technique to make sure his lips moved against Sherlock’s, that they switched between sucking Sherlock’s top and bottom lip and that his tongue darted out to lick at Sherlock’s lips in hot, breathy caresses.

Sherlock could only follow Watson’s lead and mirror his movements. A tingling sensation was building up in his core and travelling through his body, affecting his fingers and neck most ardently. Pleasure seeped through his entire being and he held onto Watson desperately, as if clutching at the doctor could somehow numb the excitement frizzling in his hands.

He should have really thought things through better when he asked Watson to 'join' him in bed.

A low moan broke through their sounds of frantic breaths and kissing, emitting from Sherlock’s throat. He knew he must have sounded ridiculous, but when Watson whispered a telling _“God, yes,”_ Sherlock only moaned louder and with more frequency amidst their kisses.

Soon Watson was pushing him onto the bed without breaking the kiss. Watson fell on top of Sherlock and kept at kissing him, climbing up to get into a better position as his hands switched between caressing Sherlock’s face and roaming over his chest.

The entire experience was electrifying. Sherlock had never been this grateful for his bed or interested in his body, and while this was not his first kiss ever, it still felt like an utterly new experience.

Watson knees were in between Sherlock’s legs, spreading them obscenely as their bodies pressed against one another. The doctor’s body was hot and heavy, pleasantly so, on top of him.

Suddenly Watson rutted his pelvis against Sherlock’s, and a white heat imploded in Sherlock's navel as sparks flew behind his closed eyes.

He gasped and pushed against Watson, suddenly overwhelmed by the burst of sensations centred on his core. The kissing was certainly highly inappropriate, but coupled with the leaking tent that Sherlock just realised was protruding from under his pants, it was certainly past sacrilegious now. Watson stumbled back, straightening his back as he stared down at Sherlock.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed hastily. “I didn’t mean to startle –”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock whispered, his own darkened eyes begging Watson to stay. “Just – let’s just lie down.”

Watson nodded and climbed off Sherlock, repositioning himself so that he lay on his side. He was careful not to let his hands wander. Both men simply lay on their sides, staring into each other’s eyes with idle hands resting on chests and faces.

They were breathing heavily, calming themselves from the early near-transgression. Sherlock's entire body was buzzing, tingling in some areas and aching with want in others. Yet Sherlock liked how their hot breaths coiled together, mingled sensuously in a figurative remake of their physical eroticism. It should be enough, shouldn’t it, that they were joined together in their breaths, the heat and vapour caressing each other with languid strokes of desire as they mingled definitively, dissipating in a blurred sigh of ecstasy. It would be enough, enough that they had this, so they wouldn’t need to have anything more.

But the look in Watson’s eyes was not one of sated bliss, and Sherlock suspected Watson was only trying to play out the same fantasies in his own mind to satisfy his real and urgent need to take Sherlock as his tonight.

It wouldn’t be enough, it shouldn’t be enough.

How Sherlock _wanted –_ he had never wanted, nor needed anything so much in his life, and he was sure this obsession was going to destroy him. And yet, he couldn't do it. Not now.

They lay there fighting against the abating lusts of their hearts by staring resolutely into the face of the other in unspoken promises to hold their devils at bay, until at long last they both began to fall asleep with shaken, hot breaths caressing, caressing, caressing.

* * *

 

And so the morning after when Sherlock woke and found Watson’s head on his shoulder, he knew exactly where his heart had left off.

He allowed the constant hum of Watson’s breathing to soothe him in out and of sleep over the next half hour, until the pressure in his bladder became too difficult to bear.

When he got out of bed he did his best not to disturb the doctor, pulling the duvet over his shoulder and planting a chaste but lingering kiss over the soft fabric.

After he was done washing up, Sherlock sauntered over to the living room, pointedly avoiding the bedroom.

It was still rather early. Watson would not have to be up for work yet, and even if he had to, perhaps Sherlock might be pleased if Watson decided to skip work for the day.

After all, they had much to talk about. Or did they?

Sherlock decided then that he wouldn’t want to talk about it. No, not yet.

Everything was too new, too fragile. He had kissed Watson on an impulse last night, invited him to his bed on a whim, stayed with him in bed out of want. But every move he was to take now had to be calculated. He couldn’t simply act out or do as he pleased, not every time, and Sherlock would need to be careful.

He spent quite some time moping about the flat, picking up his manuscript on the table and going over it absentmindedly, smoking his pipe distractedly. When it was already a quarter past seven in the morning and Watson had still not emerged from the bedroom, Sherlock picked up his violin and began playing a soft tune that was entirely improvised. He was thinking of the blues of Watson's eyes as he played, the sandy blonde of Watson's hair. He was playing a song for Watson, about Watson. 

He tried not to linger on that thought, the pathetic romanticism of it. There was a part of him that feared everything was different now, that Watson would wake up and balk at how everything had turned the night before. And so he chose to think instead about his music as utilitarian, that it served a different purpose altogether. 

 

Watson praised Sherlock on his skill with the violin often enough that Sherlock knew the doctor had a fondness for his playing. And so it was not only out of a necessity to wake Watson that Sherlock played the violin now, but also to remind the doctor that Sherlock was still the same. Things could still be the same, and there was nothing to fear. He was still violin player, novel writer, pipe smoker.

Perhaps this would re-establish a kind of normalcy, and Watson would wake to feel that nothing was different. He would wake and be completely fine, and nothing would be ruined.

And that would be good, wouldn’t it?

But apparently the doctor would not have cared either way, because when he eventually trudged out of the bedroom at half-past seven, the first thing he did was come up behind Sherlock and wrap his warm arms around the taller man’s waist, interrupting his violin playing.

Sherlock froze as his stomach danced with emotion – which wasn’t necessarily just nervousness or shock. It was joy.  _John doesn't care,_ he thought.

“Good morning,” Watson mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder. The doctor was clearly still half asleep, leaning into Sherlock for support.

Sherlock braced himself against Watson’s weight, amused to realise that if the doctor would need him to stay this way for hours, he would, just to ensure Watson’s tired mind had its due rest.

“What were you playing?” the blonde man spoke.

“Something of my own,” Sherlock said softly, turning his head so the tip of his nose was almost brushing against the side of Watson’s.

Watson smiled, eyes still shut.

“Does it have a name?” he asked.

Sherlock considered for a moment, and with a huff of breath conceded the truth he had known the second he had played that tune.

“John,” he simply said.

“Hmm?”

“It’s called ‘John.’”

Watson was fully awake now, pulling away from Sherlock. Sherlock’s breath hitched at the loss of contact.

The doctor did not say anything. He only stared up at Sherlock, his lips parted and eyes awash with emotion.

The sunlight streaming in from the window was glowing against Watson’s skin, lighting his blue eyes with crystal clarity. Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He cast his instrument onto the table and lunged for Watson, hands eagerly cradling the doctor's head.

Sherlock loved just being like this, with his hands sitting reverently under Watson’s jawline, lips pressed against soft, inviting kisses. If his hands were made for anything, they would have been made for caressing Watson’s indescribably expressive face, for holding his head up for the light to illuminate every glance of skin, for bringing his face up for a kiss.

John kissed Sherlock back tenderly, his own hands resting contentedly against Sherlock’s hips.

When the pair finally pulled away from one another, it was as if they had signed an unspoken contract.

The events of the night before, and the current morning, did not mean anything was ‘different’. Neither Sherlock nor John would have to worry about sudden changes or drastic consequences, because nothing was actually different. In fact, it was perfectly normal. This was supposed to happen, this would have happened regardless, and it has happened. And life would go on, because all this existed within 221B, and in their own universe at least, they could make up the rules. And the rules were that it was normal, and fine, and they never wanted it to stop. It was as if they were working their whole lives to get to this point, so it was rather more like a goal achieved. And best still, they wouldn’t even have to talk about any of it.

* * *

And this was how the next few days of Sherlock’s life came to pass with such grand luminosity.

See, it was just little things. But that was precisely what was so perfect about it, and every small gesture made Sherlock’s chest beam with cosmic force, because it was all so _natural,_ as if their existence was simply leading up to this point of total contentment.

They would leave tea out for one another. They always smiled. They kissed often. When one passed the other, a small brush of knuckles against hips were indicative enough of unconditional affection. Watson would ruffle Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock would run his fingers through Watson’s, luxuriating against the smoothness and breathing in the scent deeply. When Sherlock played the violin, he played for Watson. And the doctor made for a wonderful audience. He would lavish Sherlock with praise, coaxing the bashful writer to his side on the settee, and then they would fall into an endless stupor of kisses and kisses and kisses. They would go out for walks, and though they could not do much out in the open, occasional glances the other’s way made up for lost kisses and touches. It was a miracle really, how all that was so wholly enough for the both of them. They would sit by the fire, and sometimes they would talk for hours on end about anything and everything, giggling softly and telling stories of their childhoods, stories both men had previously reserved only for the silence of their own memories. And they kissed often. Sometimes they bickered, but even that only meant passion and energy. Other times, they might sit by the fire and be completely silent. Watson might read, but most of the time they simply smoked their pipes together, and Sherlock would watch his doctor the entire time and just _burn._

 _I love you I love you I love you._ The admission was no longer shameful to Sherlock. If anything, he blistered to say it out loud. When they would fall into bed at night in deep, passionate kisses, Sherlock would think, _I love you, John Watson,_ and hope that Watson would be able to read it in his eyes.

But the pressure to confess was not there, because they had agreed they would not need to talk about anything, even if their agreement was silent. But perhaps there was something to be regretted with this clause, because John Watson deserved to be told that he was loved, so ardently and desperately.

And they kissed often.

Sometimes 'mishaps' would occur when they were kissing in bed. Sherlock would be embarrassed by his body’s inability to control itself, by its obvious and lamentably rude signs of arousal, but Watson would hush him and smile kindly, stroking his face as if to say, _it’s alright, it’s alright._

Sherlock knew Watson’s body reacted the same way. And it wasn’t as if Sherlock didn’t want it. The hot pool of desire in his core just at the sight of Watson sometimes told him that he did indeed want it very much. But he simply wasn’t ready.

Everything was too fresh, too new. Watson was new. Sherlock would need time to acknowledge these desires of his, and much more to act on them. And beautiful, sweet, kind John Watson seemed to understand this. His smiles told Sherlock as much.

And so they would always fall asleep with their arousals unattended, and it would hang heavy over them like a soothing, damp mist coaxing them into slumber in one another’s arms. It was always very warm, and sometimes uncomfortable, but Sherlock knew if he left the arms of his doctor, desperation would take over and his resolve might just shatter.

It would be alright again in the morning, because they would kiss often.

* * *

These best days of Sherlock’s life lasted for a good week. The best week, in fact, of Sherlock’s existence thus far.

With each day that passed, the absoluteness of their togetherness grew, and Sherlock began to feel a bit silly that they hadn’t talked about things.

He was simply bursting, heart aching with the screaming declaration of “JOHN WATSON, I LOVE YOU,” that he could never get out. It was compacting inside him with the force of a cannon, and Sherlock dreaded the day when it would suddenly explode unbidden and throw the poor doctor off his feet.

Sherlock was so bothered by this that his behaviour became erratic by the fourth day. He would yelp whenever startled by Watson’s closeness, he would drink his tea and then forget it even as he carried it around the flat the whole day, he would walk into rooms with no idea as to why he was there.

Watson noticed.

On the evening of their seventh day, Watson had come home with a plan already laid out to soothe his writer out of his bout of inner turmoil. 

“Holmes,” Watson had just returned from work, shrugging off his coat.

Sherlock looked up from where he had been staring into the fire absentmindedly.

“Hmm?”

“Is everything alright?” The doctor gave Sherlock a smile that Sherlock immediately photographed in his mind to be filed under his ever-growing list of things to never forget.

“Of course.” Sherlock smiled back. “You’re home.”

Watson grinned briefly before he cleared his throat and approached Sherlock. The kiss they shared was also brief, but Sherlock had no complaints. It was sweet as ever, tender and loving.

“Are _you_ alright?” Sherlock asked, noticing Watson’s nervous demeanour.

“Yes, yes, all good. Had a lovely day at work.”

“That’s good.”

“Were you just sitting around all day?”

Sherlock smirked.

“What else do I do?” he said.

This elicited a laugh from Watson, which made Sherlock’s heart sing.

“About that,” Watson began. “I was thinking, err – I know that you mostly just sit around. At home. When I’m at work. And I was thinking maybe, that you should get out more.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I’m quite content to just _sit around_ , really,” he said.

“I know!” Watson quickly said, alarmed that he inadvertently caused offense. “Agh – how do I say this?”

“Say what?”

Watson exhaled through his nose and looked up at Sherlock, biting his lip.

“Come away with me,” he finally said.

Sherlock blinked, confused yet intrigued.

“Come with me. For a holiday,” Watson elaborated.

“A holiday?” Sherlock repeated stupidly.

“The country. Beaches. Quiet. Privacy. All the time in the world. Just you and me, getting away, enjoying the company.” Watson smiled at that. He had a knack for being very, very tempting.

“How long?” Sherlock croaked. In truth, the details served him no purpose. He would have followed Watson anywhere.

Watson thought for a while.

“Until you get bored. But, within a week.” He smiled cheekily.

“When?”

“Next week.”

“And work?”

“Work will still be here when we get back. I just – I just want you to feel good, to have a good time. I want to bring you somewhere.” Watson smiled before looking away and bowing his head.

And with that, Sherlock crashed at him with a hail of kisses pressed all over Watson’s face. Watson was laughing boisterously, hand holding Sherlock’s neck while the other pressed against his chest.

The whole situation was delightful. The thought of going away with Watson for another week of utter bliss, of having the man all to himself – it wasn’t as if he didn’t have him now, but London and 221B was different. Mrs Hudson flittered about downstairs and the general swarm of humans always made Sherlock feel watched, even when they were in the flat. But to go away, to vacation with Watson… it was a dream come true. Sherlock’s mind began conjuring fantasies, various manifestations of open affection between them, of forbidden desires finally coming through in realised intimacy…

Warmth bloomed in Sherlock’s core and he realised his body was betraying him again. But this time, the embarrassment didn’t hit as hard. It hung over him but didn’t drench him, because he was too occupied thinking about serene strolls in the wooded country, about pressing Watson up against an ancient, undisturbed colossus of a tree and kissing him senseless, of isolated lakes dotted with petals and leaves as Watson and he removed themselves of the burden of clothes and swam completely liberated, completely free.

He shuddered, sighing into a fierce kiss with Watson.

Maybe it is during this little getaway that they could finally talk about things, and Sherlock would finally have a way in to saying that which he was so desperate to confess.

Sherlock and Watson retired early to bed that night, if only because they would have more time to caress the other into slumber.


End file.
